


Brute Blood Of The Air

by transcryptidone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, College Professor Will Graham, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demons, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Lore based on VERY loose interpretations of stuff I read online, M/M, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Professor Hannibal Lecter, Someone Help Will Graham, Weird Cryptid & Demon Biology, Which is always the recipe for success, Whump, Will Has a Vagina, just by the way, labor, monster fucking, probably sacrilegious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcryptidone/pseuds/transcryptidone
Summary: Will has a dream of monsters and creatures. When he wakes, things are not exactly as they should be. He finds it hard to convince himself it wasn't real and he struggles to understand the oddities and strangeness as they unfold. Never one for attention or socializing, adjusting will be all the more difficult while he's discovering and navigating a new connection in Hannibal Lecter. Will only hopes he will be able to keep the bizarre horrors from ruining his chances.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Monster
Comments: 98
Kudos: 175
Collections: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags!
> 
> Also, I'm writing Will with a vagina as a transmasc person who simply doesn't feel like writing two cis guys together. This fic will have nothing to do with explorations/representations of trans identity and the words/terms I choose are personal preference. Just wanted to put that out there so folks could make an informed decision!

Will’s feet crunch in the ice and snow as he trudges across the field behind his house. His breath freezes as he exhales and he feels it brush back against his face as he walks. It is another restless night, another night when his heart beats too hard and fast in his chest to sleep and a night when his legs feel intent on walking. Although these nights have been a common occurrence more like routine, he still forgot to bring a scarf or hat to protect his cheeks and ears from the bite of the cold. When the bite turns harsher, he considers going home either to try to go to bed or fetch a hat, but he is almost far enough out and he can wait out the pain.  
  
He arrives at his usual spot closer to edge of where the field turns into the woods. Looking back at his house, it has once again been transformed to a boat adrift on the water and his dogs mill like fish around his feet. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths, and imagines that boat with an easy rock against the current and fishing lures and lines lovingly made and ready to catch.  
  
The scene is interrupted by the snap of a tree branch in the middle-distance. Will and his dogs snap their heads in the direction of the sound, alert and observant. They all seem frozen in a standstill and a chill ricochets down Will’s spine beneath the layers of his sweatshirt and jacket. The chill prickles when there is a howl in the distance, deeper and darker within the trees.  
  
This howl is an eerie, familiar sound. Will moved to his home at the start of a semester. The howl first startled him the night before his first class. He has become reluctantly familiar with it and by the time it sounded during a late-night grading of finals, it had lost its novelty even if still had not completely lost its menace. The howl is not the only sound he’s grown reluctantly used to. He’s heard the cries of other animals too. Raccoons, possums, and other creatures who all have vanished by the time Will sets out to look for them, not even a paw left behind or tracks to follow. Will doesn’t know why he’s continued to look even if he knows he won’t find anything, something he has resisted becoming accustomed to.  
  
Hearing the howl out in the open seems to activate something instinctual in himself and his pack. Many of the dogs make to retreat – the kind of dogs that rush out to great but not to fight. Buster, however, in his infinite feistiness, decides he wants to fight. The small dog bolts towards the trees, sprinting through snow that’s nearly as tall as he is.   
  
“Buster!” Will shouts after him, even though he knows very well that once Buster has gotten an idea into his head, he’s almost impossible to distract. He waves and whistles the other dogs back towards the house and they seem perfectly willing to jog back towards home. Only Winston lingers, starting up at Will in trust and devotion.  
  
“You go on home,” he says to Winston, who is more inclined to obey than Buster is – albeit reluctantly.  
  
As Winston whines and turns away back to the house, Will sprints the other direction, following Buster’s tracks in the snow. He runs across the grassier plain and enters deeper and deeper into the woods. In the short time he has lived here, he has yet to walk this far. As he crosses from what is known to what is unknown, there is silence but for the sounds of his panting breaths, crack and crunch of his feet in the snow, and the brush of fabric with the swing of his arms as he runs. Deeper into the thicket, a yelp pierces through – sharp and pained.  
  
“Buster!” Will shouts again, no longer a call for the dog but a desperate plea for his safety.  
  
Will follows the tracks and the sound of the yelp until he’s close enough to hear soft whimpers. Buster’s whimpering sounds like the raccoons and possums he’s heard and his heart lurches in his chest when at the end of the trail he finds Buster lain on his side, bright streaks of red against the white of his fur. Buster lets out a few more whimpers as Will approaches. The small dog doesn’t move except for the rapid clench of his chest with his distressed breaths – the pull to fight fading to the instinct to freeze instead. Will kneels down on the ground beside him and scans his eyes over the blood and gouges in the dog’s fur. He moves to cradle the dog in his arms and jerks in surprise when Buster growls.  
  
“It’s okay, buddy,” Will soothes once he’s recovered from his surprise. “I just want to take you home.”  
  
It’s when Buster growls a second time that Will realizes it isn’t directed at him.  
  
Looking back over his shoulder, he might describe what he finds most simply as a monster. Will has disliked the idea of _monsters_ and _evil minds_ with their drama at the expense of nuance and details. But the monster standing in front of him is only confirmed by the details. With a skull but no skin or fur, the monster’s huge, sharp teeth are on full display. The teeth drip with the saliva that pours between the gaps with no gums or lips to keep it contained. Although they are covered with skin like leather pulled tight, the rest of the monster’s bones are equally prominent. There is no fat or muscle to be found to cushion, simply bones and death. The sight of it makes him think of the stories of the Rougarou when he was growing up in Louisiana, but both he and the monster are both far, far away from the swamps now.  
  
The monster launches itself from the shadows and Will is only barely able to roll out of the way. As Will pulls out the hunting knife he keeps in his jacket pocket, the monster crouches near the ground ready to pounce and lunge and tear and gnash. A growl rumbles in the monster’s chest as it readies itself and Buster barks, then whimpers in pain at the effort. When Will quickly flits his eyes towards his dog, it’s all the distraction the monster needs to leap towards him and clamp its teeth around his shoulder. Two long, curved, saber-shaped teeth puncture deep through his skin and into muscle.  
  
Will grunts with the pain, feels spit pool in his mouth as his stomach tries to leap from his throat. He chokes back the saliva as he takes the opportunity to stabs his knife between rib bones. The monster shakes its head and digs its teeth in deeper until the points of its shorter teeth have had the chance to sink into flesh and soak themselves in blood. The wound is nowhere near enough to Will’s neck to risk paralyzing him. It’s an effort not meant to paralyze or even kill him, but to brutalize him – playing with its food.  
  
Will yanks the knife beneath the tough skin. Though he only has one dagger, one weapon, he too can cut deep. He’s cut nearly all the way along the length of a rib bone by the time the monster finally relents. The drag of teeth back out again is a pain perhaps heightened by relief. In the moment before he will likely be crushed and ripped apart and mauled, Will takes his chance to lunge and tackle the monster to the cold, hard ground and stab his knife in the bleak darkness that is it’s seemingly empty eye socket.  
  
The monster _shrieks_. It pierces the night air, tearing a hole in any semblance of the natural silence that could have existed on a peaceful night. The shriek rings in his ear so loud and long that he’s not sure when it has ended truly ended and when it’s simply the echo that sounds in his skull. Will grabs at the monster’s neck. The vertebrae fit between his fingers and he tightens his grip as he twists abruptly. He is satisfied by the feel of skin and bone between his fingers as a crack sounds and the monster falls limp and lifeless.  
  
He can still hear the shriek in his ear alongside the pounding of his blood when a shadow darkens his vision and hides away the dead body of his foe. Just before the curtain of shade fell, Will thought he saw the image of a fresh-faced young man, not entirely unlike himself, lain against the snow beneath him. He would have taken a second look at the bloody, blank face if he’d had the time or higher consciousness to consider it. As it is, he instead turns towards the source of the darkness.  
  
At first, he sees no features, simply the looming midnight black shape of something beyond human. He can see the shapes of great horns on its head like a stag, the great bony wings of a bat, and the hind legs and hooves of a goat. With only these features to work with, there are even fewer details than with that of the monster and even less to make sense of.  
  
Will’s heart slows in his chest, oddly calm after such an ordeal and when facing such a creature. Even though his shoulder pulses and throbs and he can feel sticky, thick blood soaking down his sleeve, Will grips at the knife in his hand and shifts to move from his knees to his feet. He staggers slightly once he’s standing, getting his baring. He resumes some semblance of a crouch to brace for another battle.  
  
In the darkness, Will had no knowledge of the creature’s reach. It easily swipes its hand across his chest and simply and effectively knocks both Will and his knife to the ground. Will’s fall is partially cushioned by a mound of snow fallen from tree branches but his knife lands too far out of reach. He has to roll in the direction of his wounded shoulder to have any open of taking the knife in hand again. He tries to shift and groans at the sharp pain that shoots out from his shoulder, across his chest, and how his arm. He falls back against the mound of snow by reflex and he looks up at the darkness that assumes to be the creature's face. With no expression to see it’s no comfort, but it wasn’t comfort he was looking for.  
  
Buster, in his infinite feistiness, decides not to give up a fight and he gives one hollow, little bark from where he still lays on the ground. The creature turns to look at the source of such a sadly proud sound and the moonlight provides just the slightest bit of dimension, revealing to Will an almost oddly humanoid face. Rather than descend on Will to finish him off, the creature turns away towards the dog.  
  
“Stay away from him!” Will demands.  
  
The creature barely casts a look over its shoulder to acknowledge him as it crouches on one knee and looms with rigid posture over the dog. The flick of one finger with a pointed fingernail looks akin to the flick of a switchblade.  
  
“He’s just a dog!” Will yells again, voice tinged with desperation. “Leave him alone!”  
  
When the creature drags one long fingernail up its forearm, the silhouette of the nail against the dark black makes Will expect a terrible scraping sound. Such a sound never comes. Instead, the skin parts so simply and seamlessly that Will finds himself in awe. He can barely see the cut in the moonlight but he can see dark drips falling as the creature leans over Buster again. Although part of him knows he still should, Will finds no reason in him to protest.  
  
From his angle, Will can’t quite see exactly what the creature does, but after a moment, Buster twitches and flips on his back, rolls like he does on the carpet at home. When he can get his feet under him, the little dog zips away through the snow as quickly as he’d come. Will watches him sprint away but doesn’t get up himself – doesn’t try to do his own roll on his back to get to his feet. He doesn’t feel Buster’s instinct to flee. He doesn’t even feel betrayed at being left behind. That’s just what he would have wanted, what he would have told one of his oldest friends to do.  
  
Will watches as the creature turns back to him. Blood drips from the long cut up its forearm as it approaches and the droplets glimmer as they fall. He finds himself mesmerized by the trail it leaves behind in the snow, dark black speckles in the snow like a corruption of bright stars in the sky.  
  
A hand wraps around Will’s throat and pushes him harshly flat back against the snowbank. His arms and legs fall against the ground with the force and resignation and the jostle against his shoulder makes him gasp a wet pant. Two fingers slip into his open mouth. The long nails are as sharp as the point of a knife as they press dangerously at his tongue. He doesn’t dare move his tongue against the points of the fingernails and he can taste a metallic sweetness that bites as it soothes. The hand on his throat keeps him panting for air until scent and taste seem to merge as one and the metallic sweetness fills his nose too.  
  
His senses blurred by adrenaline start to soften at the edges. His heartbeat calms further until it’s almost soothing and languid. His own blood feels sweeter in his veins. His shoulder no longer pulses and, when he tests his ability to shift in his arm, there’s only an ache to replace shooting pain. The ache is a distant feeling and his shoulder feels heavy and his fingers feel heavy too with resignation, as well as a slight tingle with numbness.  
  
He chances a grip at the wrist attached to the hand two fingers deep in his mouth. Although the numbness in his fingers makes it difficult to feel his own strength, he feels the wet of blood on his palm but no wound. Will takes a risk in the way he pulls at his hold. The creature doesn’t budge and only comes in closer and grips tighter.  
  
His efforts in breaking free may have been a failure, but he feels something akin to success when the creature’s encroaching brings another few glimpses of its face into view. The features revealed to him are eerie to be sure, but the smooth planes are oddly pleasing in their peculiarity. Huffs of breath brush against the skin of Will’s jaw, passing through a nose that doesn’t need to wrinkle or flex. The creature’s impassive restraint is off-putting and soothing. There are no bared teeth prepared to maim, no ferocity. It is a deadly ease.  
  
The grip loosens and releases his throat. Fingers pull away from his mouth, tilt around his bottom lip, and drift lightly down his chin and along his bared neck. His head feels woozy and his eyes unfocused as he relaxes his body back into the snow. A bit of snow drips down the back of his neck and he gasps in sweet relief at the cooling. Will’s face feels flushed in the cold. His cheeks pink up with the warmth surging in his veins.  
  
The sound of tearing fabric comes just before the rush of cold air against his skin. Sweat like dew on his stomach and chest cools like perspiration on a hot summer day. The next tear pulls apart the crotch of his pants and boxers, his belt falling away as simply and easily as thin cotton string. Will can feel the damp fabric of his boxers against his skin and, as if there could be any question of the source, his hole pulses and gushes slick and wet. He doesn’t know if it’s only his imagination when he feels it drip and run down his ass.  
  
Will is turned over in strong hands. With Will relaxed and pliant, the creature barely seems to need to use much of his strength to hold and mold him how it wants. Will is placed on his knees and given the opportunity to hold himself up on his arms. In his woozy relaxation, he clumsily flumps forward and lands with his face and chest pressed against the ground. The snow burns against his flushed, sensitive cheeks. With what’s left of his pants and underwear down around his knees, his hole burns hot and needy in the open air.  
  
Will feels a few more puffs of air against the skin of his ass and he thinks he might flush in embarrassment if it were possible for him to turn any pinker. Hands curl around his hips and sharp, dangerous points tap at his defenseless bare skin. When the creature shifts to curl around his back, Will finds he feels almost surprised and maybe _disappointed_ when only smooth planes press back against his skin. He feels so open and _empty_. His brain swims with too much want and need to be filled to consider the sheer _curiousness_ of that want and desire. He barely has time to feel remorseful before he’s entered and filled all at once.  
  
Air feels forced out of him as if by the clench of a fist. His breath stutters and catches in his chest. The breaths quickly turn into heavy panting when just as quickly and suddenly as he is filled, the creature starts to pull back. Solid ridges that passed through Will’s hole and rubbed and stimulated when pushed deep, then drag in a punishing stretching, sting when threatened with retreat.  
  
Will whimpers in protest and want. He tries to push back, stop the drag, and soothe the sting but the hands at his hips keep him held firmly in place. The creature decides when to press in again and starts to create a push and pull that has burning pleasure and stinging pain blurring together. Will whines as the thrusts come faster and harder – almost as a test of what he can take, will take, will want, will _need_. Will takes it all and craves more.  
  
Pushed mercilessly closer and closer to the edge, Will is just as eager for it as he is afraid. He finds himself wanting to creep away from this edge but also finds himself knowing he would feel an aching disappointment if he did. The void calls and the rail glints; he knows danger and it summons him. His feelings conflicting and contrasting overwhelms him – like too much clang and clamor makes it harder to see. The closer he gets, the more eagerness consumes and absorbs the fear.  
  
He can feel one ridge larger than the others, swelling larger and larger still with each push and pull. Wrapped around the entirety of the base, each time the ridge pulls out again, there is the risk of it not fitting back in again with the next thrust. Breath and spit hiss through Will’s teeth when the ridge has swollen enough to add to the stinging burn and his hole strains to accommodate the size.  
  
One last shove in deep and rough has him fully filled and stretched. The ridge plugging him presses against where he’s aching and wanting, while other smaller ridges and edges create their own spots of keen pleasure. Locked in deep and filled, a hot, scorching heat pours inside Will. He gasps pained, pleasured breathes through parted lips and teeth as he presses his trembling, cold hand on his lower belly to try to soothe the heat pooling on the other side of his skin. The heat warms at his palm and refuses to fade.  
  
His fingers are still numbed with cold and from blood deprived of oxygen by ragged, unsteady breathing and he slides them downwards between his legs. His clit burns with eagerness and one clumsy touch of the cold of his fingers against it has his orgasm ripped from him. It’s a burst at his clit that has his hole clenching and releasing. His hole contracts and releases with desperate want and receives another gushing of heat spilling deep inside him. He arches his back at the pleasure and satisfaction that washes over him.  
  
The creature leans forward, curling itself over his back. The hands on his hips press against the ground to bracket his head instead. Puffs of air return to the back of his head and nape of his neck and his own breaths pant out of his open lips punctuated by whimpers. Full and hot and flushed and cold, his senses and mind blur and tip drunkenly. He tries to steady himself in the feel of the solid ground under his face and shoulders. He hopes for his sense of time and space to settle out in the reminder of the earth beneath him – and it almost does.  
  
Just as he closes his eyes in exhaustion, the creature pulls away completely, no longer curled over his back or filling his hole. He has the distant thought that the yank of the ridge isn’t as harsh as he expected and the far-off realization it must have shrank as he settled. His eyes remain closed as he falls to his side in his weariness. Nearly human hands easily turn him again and he opens his eyes to the sight of stars blinking in the sky. The silhouette the creature casts against the midnight sky is a slight one giving the impression that the creature and the nighttime are one. Will’s thoughts fade into his fatigue and his body sinks inwards with him.  
  
Will blinks his eyes open with a gasp. He blinks his eyes frantically at the sight of his living room at home. His heart pounds and sweat sticks to his skin as he feels for his bed underneath him. His covers have long since been thrown aside to pile on the floor. He pushes his t-shirt up his belly with a shaky sweaty hand. He places a trembling palm to the skin and though there is an agitated sweat and flush to his skin, nothing more seems changed. He then slides that hand downward in an echo of something almost like déjà vu and presses his hand against his hole over his underwear. The fabric is soaked through under his fingers and his hole instinctually clenches on open air. There is no pain or soreness, only the desire that pulses and demands.  
  
As he takes a panting breath, he cringes and marvels at how it had felt so _real_.  
  
With a few deliberate inhales and a brush of sweaty hair from his face, he stands up. When the room no longer tilts dangerously under his feet, he strips himself of his soaked clothes and strips the bed of sweat-damp sheets. As he makes the bed again and puts on new pajamas, he feels compelled to check every shadow with the reach of his hand against the darkness. He doesn’t trust his eyes to know what he’s seeing. Tucked back into his covers, he stares at the light from his clock and watches the numbers tick by. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s when sunlight shines through the window and he can hear the clicking and scratching of his dogs starting to stir and pace around the floor that Will decides he might as well get out of bed. As he sits up in bed, his muscles ache in exhausted protest. He’s not sure he’s gotten any sleep since he woke up from his nightmare. Sleep had been a trust fall he was unwilling or unable to take. As soon as he threatened to slip under the surface into subconscious unconsciousness, fear and uncertainty would yank him back into awareness.  
  
He rubs at his tired eyes as he climbs out of bed and weaves his feet between dogs with tails wagging. On sheer motor instinct, he reaches for his jacket where it usually hangs by the door and he cracks his eyes open in confusion when he comes up empty-handed. The rung where it would usually hang is empty.   
  
At the sound of a whine and more clacking of nails on the wood, he decides to let the dogs go outside without him. He has the thought that he hopes they learned their lesson not to run off and he has to remind himself that they have no reason to learn from a dream only he had.   
  
“Go on,” he tells Winston when the dog lingers. Those big, round eyes stare from where he sits in the open doorway. Will can’t help himself but crouch and pet at the dog’s head affectionately and he coos, “I know you need to go out.”  
  
Will gives Winston’s head a few more pats and then points him out the door with a click of his tongue. The dog runs off, albeit reluctantly, to join the other dogs as they bark and yip happily in the grass and approach their usual trees. Will closes the door on the happy, normal scene and retreats back into the house. He sets about cooking breakfast and preparing the food for the dogs. He also starts on what will likely be just the first of many rounds of coffee.   
  
As meat sizzles on the stove and coffee brews, he looks for his jacket. He’s not sure where he could have left it. The process of taking so many dogs in and out every day has created a routine Will could trust. Occasionally, his keys will end up in an odd spot but his jacket and knife are always the same. His hand feels empty now with the realization that if his jacket is missing, so is his knife. His body knows the routine of taking the jacket off the rung and on again and knows the ritual of checking for the knife on the way out. He knows how the shape of it fit in his hand when he pats at the pocket. Will also remembers the glint of the knife in the moonlight and the grip of his blood-soaked hand around it.   
  
He scans his eyes around his living room and catches the glint of that knife sitting on his fly tying table on the other side of the room. He crosses the room to pick it up. It’s cool and solid in his hand again and looks as it always does. There is no blood dried on the handle or the blade. He hesitates to put it back down again once he has it in hand. He carries it with him back to the kitchen and, without a pocket to put it in, he lays it within view on the counter as he stirs the food that threatens to burn.   
  
He lets the dogs back in when the food is done and goes out of his way to check that they all return. Disadvantaged by shorter legs, Buster runs in at the end. Will sits with breakfast and coffee and Buster comes to sit next to him after finishing with his own meal. Will pats at the dog’s side. There’s no sign of injury to be found. There’s been no limp in his run and no sign of slashes against his fur. Just when Will’s starting to try to leave his dream behind, Will discovers a tiny clump of dried blood as he cards his fingers through Buster’s fur. He pulls the clump free between two fingernails and, when he inspects what he found in his open palm, it is a very small amount. He sets the clump aside and brings Buster carefully to his lap.   
  
He discovers only a couple more clumps in his fur. It’s not nearly enough blood to compare with the deep gashes he’d seen in his mind and it could probably be explained by a variety of things, but it’s _something_. His jacket missing is an _absence_ of something and even his knife is simply not where it usually would be. There is nothing solid to hold onto. It should come as a comfort but doesn’t. His memories of the dream have been spotty in the daylight. He remembers the knife, the dogs, and he remembers the silhouette of a creature and the feel of around and inside him, but any details he may have had of its face have blurred in his waking. Usually his overactive visual memory is a nuisance; now he misses it.   
  
He grips at his shoulder at the memory of stabbing pain and the drip of his own blood. His grip now in waking is not pain-free, but that’s not necessarily unexpected either. Will pulls his shirt over his head. After placing both his shirt and his dog on the floor, he feels his fingers along the twists and edges of the scar at his shoulder. It is still as raised and red as it has been. He considers that maybe the stabbing pain in his dream was a manifestation of a memory – saber-teeth on a monster instead of a man with a knife. He can recognize that those memories left unaddressed are a psychoanalytic recipe for nightmares. He cringes at the idea of what Freud might think of the sex part – something about _penetration_ probably.   
  
When the dogs start to bark, Will flinches. Although not exactly reenacted from his dream, Will finds himself bracing for what danger his dogs might find outside their door. He picks up his shirt back from the floor and pulls it on quickly as he stands from the table. Still without his usual jacket, he pulls another one from a different rung and shrugs it on as he makes his way to the door. Will pauses and quickly decides to detour so he can grab his knife again to tuck in the pocket.  
  
When Will discovers none other than Alana trudging through snow piled nearly knee-high in his front yard, Will recognizes that he interpreted his dog’s behavior as fear when excitement was the most likely option. Only Winston lingers once again at his side as the other dogs circle happily around Alana and make it all the more difficult for her to cross the distance and keep from tipping over. A whistle and a few tsks of Will’s tongue have them remembering their manners.   
  
“I didn’t hear you drive up,” Will observes. His general _unsettled_ feeling seems in direct contrast with the easy simplicity of a friend coming for a visit, but his heart still throbs in his chest.  
  
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she answers easily with a smile.   
  
“It’s a pleasant surprise at least,” he remarks as his lips twitch in a smile too. “Do you want to come in? I can make more coffee.”  
  
Her smile shines even brighter as she looks up at him from the bottom step. “I’d love to.”  
  
He whistles for the dogs again and they pool around the door in preparation to rush in when he opens it. After they’ve nosed their way passed, Will gestures politely for Alana to go next, follows, and closes the door behind them.   
  
“I’m sorry for the mess,” Will apologizes. His bed is unmade in his living room and his dog beds are still covering almost all of the floor. He’s used to walking around them but what might be shame with the thought Alana will have to trudge inside too. He hangs up his coat with the knife in the pocket on the rung. “Please make yourself comfortable,” he says as he gestures to a couple of chairs across the sea of dog beds. “I’m going to go change.”  
  
“I have brothers,” she soothes.   
  
“Still,” he insists as he rubs at the bare skin of his arms.   
  
“Alright,” she agrees and she turns away to the chairs. It’s a kind agreement more than a dismissal.   
  
Will pulls some clothes out of his drawers. He grabs socks rolled together, a well-folded t-shirt, and clean underwear. Winston follows at his feet as he tucks the clothes sheepishly under his arm to retreat upstairs where his closet holds his pants and button-ups.   
  
When behind the closed door of what should be his bedroom, he pulls his t-shirt up and away again. He pats another hand to the scar on his shoulder and skims a studying hand downwards across his chest. His touch lingers on his lower belly and more memories from his dream rush to him. He remembers feeling a burning deep within, a burning so bright that it makes even the surface hot to the touch. Now, his skin feels residually clammy. It’s warmed by coffee and breakfast but any unnatural fever is absent.   
  
He covers up again with the familiar and reliable: jeans and plaid. When he’s dressed, he returns to Alana and finds her petting the dogs who vie for her attention – all except Winston, of course, who is once again lingering and starting at him with eyes that seem hesitant to blink. Will gets another cup of coffee and pours Alana a cup as well. He remembers how she likes to take it from their times getting coffee together between classes and meetings – coffees of convenience that Alana no doubt has choreographed. Will holds the mug at the underside and it burns hot against his palm as he passes it to her with the handle at the ready. Once she has taken it, he sits in the seat opposite her, sinking low into the shape of the chair.   
  
“Is there a reason for the surprise?” he asks after a mutual sip in silence.   
  
Alana sets her coffee aside and looks at it with a smile. “I came by to invite you to a party,” she says.  
  
“A hand-delivered invitation?” Will observes with a slight frown. He shrugs his brows along with the shrug of his shoulders. “What’s the party?”  
  
“My friend throws a dinner party before the start of every semester,” she explains as she swirls her finger around the edge of the mug. “I didn’t know you before the last one, but I wanted to make sure to invite you this time.”  
  
“When is it?” he asks. “There’s only a couple days left.”  
  
Alana flicks her eyes upwards and her smile tilts over sideways as she answers, “Tonight.”  
  
“You’re not giving me a lot of notice,” Will scoffs. He drinks from his mug like it has something stronger than coffee in it.  
  
“I know,” she says simply. As much practice as he’s had in his lifetime, his inability to break eye contact with Alana is a tribute to her skill in a staredown. Her look is so genuine and _open_ that looking away would be too much like letting her down. He assumes she chose not to give him enough notice to find an excuse to say he’s busy. She knows how he is about socializing.   
  
As an assistant professor at twenty-five, his fellow faculty members have been reluctant to accept his place among them. Jack’s eagerness to hire him as quickly as he could cemented Will as a teacher’s pet destined to be shunned by teachers. Alana’s one of few colleagues he willingly talks to and, coincidentally, one of few willing to talk to him.   
  
He says yes to the dinner party because he couldn’t do anything else and she tells him to pick her up on his way from Wolf Trap. He thinks she would have tried to make it her responsibility to pick up him instead if it hadn’t been so clearly impractical. She had to suffice with a simple carpool as her insurance instead.  
  
When Will and Alana arrive together at a beautiful house in Baltimore, he’s suddenly not sure if it’s supposed to be a date. His immediate assumption is that the answer is no. Alana hadn’t specified and, without that specification, there was nothing in the invite to suggest a date. Although, as much as his intuition has helped him, he’s never been able to successfully apply it to anything in the neighborhood of romance. Relying on him to know what _would_ suggest a date has never been the best, most accurate option.   
  
Alana presses the doorbell confidently and they don’t have to wait long for a butler or waitstaff of some sort to open the door and usher them inside. The butler or waitstaff or whatever his title is also asks for their coats politely. Will sneaks his hand into his pocket before he slips his hands from the sleeves. On his way to pick Alana up, he’d stopped to buy a folding knife that would fit more conspicuously in his coat pocket. When relinquishing his coat, he transfers the knife from his coat to his pants pocket and it is fortunately an easy fit there too.   
  
Alana is, of course, dressed beautifully. What has Will particularly amazed is the bright white color. He finds it hard to imagine how to keep that color so clean. He would be afraid to touch it in case he left a smudge and he was afraid when she sat in his car that it would stain. His saving grace was that she’d had her own coat as a barrier between the dog hair in his passage seat and the dress.   
  
Before she left his house in the morning, she’d also given him helpful instructions about how he should dress. He’d pulled out his nicest suit from the back of the closet and given everything a good steam and iron. The fabric of his suit is a dark navy and his shirt is white – though in comparison to Alana’s dress it looks gray. He also wears a tie with simple burgundy stripes. Looking around at the rest of the partygoers, the glint of glittery jewelry, bright colors, and interesting patterns make him feel like his best efforts to meet the dress code still failed.   
  
Alana studies the crowd along beside him but her eyes scan the faces instead of the clothes. He knows Jack Crawford must be somewhere and Chilton is no doubt milling around. Jack seems to know everyone and Chilton tries to _make_ himself known. Will tries not to look at faces for risk of making eye contact. He’s found that feeling the stares of his supposed peers is preferable to having to see and, by seeing, _acknowledge_ them. Looking for a viable distraction, he grabs a bite of food from one of the plates circling the room. The food is too fancy-looking for him to say with any certainty what it is, but it certainly tastes delicious when he eats it.   
  
“Do you want a drink?” he asks Alana. He feels suddenly thirsty and need of something rich to pair with the food. “I think I might get some wine.”  
  
“Wine?” she asks curiously. She turns and looks at him with a bit of a pout and a bit of kindhearted teasing. “I thought you were like me and preferred something else.”  
  
He nods and shrugs. Though his preference isn’t as strong as Alana’s, it’s true that wine isn’t usually his favorite. There’s just something about the taste of the food on his tongue that makes him want the sweet, syrupy sharpness of a red wine. “Maybe I’ll save whiskey for later,” he says passively.   
  
“Let’s find Hannibal,” Alana suggests. “He has a beer I like.”  
  
“Just for you?” Will observes. Alana hadn’t mentioned Hannibal before today. Will would have remembered that. “I hadn’t realized you were such close friends.”  
  
“I’ve known him a long time,” she says as she looks back around at the crowd.   
  
Will looks with her. Some of the groups in the crowd that were there before have since wandered away, others instead have entered. Everyone more or less seems to keep to themselves. There’s just the one person who seems to pass from group to group. This one is a man dressed in a velvet maroon jacket with a white shirt parted at the neck to display a deep maroon ascot. The clothes are a display of showiness that Will is probably too conventional for but they match the distinctive handsomeness of this man’s face.   
  
It seems that Will and Alana are conveniently the next on the man’s rotation. When the man steps away from a group bright and sparkly faculty, Will inadvertently catches his eye. Before he can flinch away, he notices that the stare he sees back isn’t a disapproving one, one that thinks he’s too young, or one that thinks he’s undeserving. It’s a stare of focus and, if Will’s lucky, curious interest.   
  
“Speaking of!” Alana says when she sees the man. Her smile is big and shows off happy, perfect white teeth. “Hello, Hannibal.”  
  
“Alana, I heard you’d arrived,” the man – Hannibal, apparently – greets. A waiter appears from behind him with three drinks on a tray: two red wine glasses and a tall glass of dark beer. Hannibal takes a wine glass in one hand and, in the other, picks up the beer. He presents the drinks in a well-practiced motion – a subdued flourish, if that can exist. “I brought these for you,” Hannibal says as he hands the beer to Alana and wine to Will. “I hope they are to your liking.”  
  
“Sometimes I think you’re omniscient,” Alana says as she tilts her glass to Hannibal in recognition.  
  
Hannibal smiles as he picks up his own glass of wine. “The ability to foresee is amongst the fundamentals of being a good host,” he proclaims and he swirls the wine under his nose before he drinks it. Will looks at his own wine and gives it a swirl before he sips it.   
  
“Will, I’d like to introduce you to Hannibal Lecter,” Alana says. She places a hand on Will’s arm as she says, “Hannibal, I’d like to introduce you to Will Graham.”  
  
“ _God’s Will_ ,” Hannibal remarks. His lips curl softly upward in one corner as he says it.   
  
“Hannibal is a professor in Religious Studies,” Alana explains to Will, then she looks back at Hannibal with a soft, affectionate smile. “His class on Dante is a favorite every semester, only second to his _Sin and Satan_ course.”  
  
“Alana is very kind,” Hannibal praises. He tips his body towards Will in playful conspiracy. Hannibal’s next words might have been a whisper in Will’s ear if not for the volume: “My courses are easy to market. Sin can be captivating.”   
  
Will turns towards and away in response. He looks more directly but with a little more space to keep the distance. “Maybe even more interesting are the people who find themselves captivated,” he contends.   
  
“Now that ceaseless exposure has calloused us into the lewd and the vulgar, it is instructive to see what still seems wicked to us,” Hannibal responds with ease. He takes a sip of wine afterwards instead of before. He didn’t need time to consider, only congratulations for the feat.   
  
“There are those who are wanting to see what still seems wicked,” Will grants. “There are others who are wanting to see the wickedness and _wanting_ with excited anticipation as one would before the curtain raises in a theater.”  
  
Will looks at Hannibal above the circular edge of wine glass as he takes his own sip of wine. The taste bites and eases at his tongue in equal measure and he’s warmed with alcohol in his veins.   
  
“You are a professor in the Psychology department,” Hannibal says. It isn’t phrased as a question or spoken as one but Will nods his head anyway. “Perhaps we should have companion courses: comprehend sin in one course and, in the other, understand your enticement towards the subject.”  
  
Will’s laugh is short and wry. He takes another sip of wine between his teeth. “It doesn’t take omniscience to know how the course evaluations would turn out,” he states.  
  
“Do you have such little faith in others’ interest in gaining insight?” Hannibal asks.   
  
“I have confidence in students’ disinterest in having their insight be coursework,” Will answers.   
  
“Arguably, a purpose of coursework could be encouragement and answerability for learning that might otherwise be avoided,” Hannibal asserts. “In that truth, you should be beloved.”  
  
Will feels a blush burning at his cheeks and, for the sake of his self-respect, tries to will it away quickly. The last thing he needs is to be the young professor with the blushing, rosy cheeks. He’s not sure if it’s better to say it’s just the flush from wine sitting warm in his belly. Though the way his eye sight has started to blur at the edges and the way he feels an odd desire to _touch_ might together suggest that tipsiness could be just as likely a culprit.   
  
“We can say all sorts of things as professors. Students rarely feel the same way,” Will says without malice. He knows how the students feel and why. They would see his efforts as criticism and they don’t want to pay for a nag as a lecturer.   
  
“Feel free visit to one of my classes if you’d wish. I would be happy to facilitate the infliction of your insight on our students. I’ll even assume some of the blame,” Hannibal offers with a wink.   
  
Will’s lips twitch in a smile and he takes another sip from a wine glass just shy of half-full. “Maybe,” he replies.  
  
Hannibal seems to accept that a _maybe_ is as much of a victory as he can hope for. He shows his acceptance in a smile so small that it would be easy all too easy to miss and the expression invokes in Will the same feeling that the win is only partial. Hannibal puts a hand on his arm in a way that is not dissimilar from how Alana had and Will shivers slightly under the touch.   
  
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure dinner is served just right,” Hannibal says and doesn’t wait for that allowance to be granted. He steps away back into the masses and disappears in the sea of fine fabrics and glamour.   
  
When Hannibal has fully vanished, Will looks at Alana, who’s smiling so sweetly back at him that her eyes sparkle above the pink blush of her cheeks like fireworks over a sunset. The look in her eyes is a mystery to him and he can feel a damp flush against his neck. He rubs his hand against the nape and suppresses a shiver as his fingers pull at his hair. After the shiver’s run its course, Alana is still looking and he smothers his laugh in another drink of wine. 


	3. Chapter 3

Will roughly rubs a hand across his eyes and down his cheeks as he exits the lecture hall. He’s taught two classes so far today and, no matter how much his head longs for a pillow, he still has a while to go before he can curl up in bed again. After his first class of the day, he’d felt exhausted. It has been a struggle just to get out of bed in the morning and today was no different. The effort involved with getting himself and his dogs ready and then dragging himself to work has been truly daunting. Actually staying awake at work has become something akin to a feat of endurance. If he’d been exhausted after the first class, it was nothing compared to how he felt after the second. The end of his second lecture had been a mess of words. Stringing sentences together felt like too much effort. Time for practicing his lectures has been lost to sleeping and trying to sleep.  
  
Trying to teach on the fly, Will started to make a conceptual connection, tried to communicate it, and, in the process, forgot how the connection was even made. Though it was hard to keep track of his thoughts, it was unfortunately very easy to see the confusion in his students’ eyes. Some were subtler than others. A few of them seemed to try to persevere and take frantic notes – he wasn’t even sure what about. There was a smattering of scrunched eyebrows and small frowns in a crowd. A couple seemed to give up on paying attention altogether. One student in the back seemed to be only able to glare.  
  
His shoes squeak down the wooden stairs and around the corner on his way to the coffee stand on the first floor. It’s a particular location that he’s visited with Alana many times before, but his frequent customer card has gotten many more punches than usual over the last few weeks. When he puts in his order at the register, it’s the same student worker who greeted him when he bought his last coffee. He winces away from the sympathetic look in her eyes as she rings him up.  
  
He hasn’t had _the dream_ since the first time. But even as days have turned to weeks, the dream still seems to linger too close to the present and he finds himself struggling to convince himself that the _first_ time will be the _only_ time. At night, he stares into the dark and listens to the click of his clock and the blink of his eyes as he waits and wonders if he’ll ever experience it again.  
  
He rubs again at his eyes and brushes his hair up and away from where it clings to his slightly damp forehead. He hears the call of his name at the counter, picks up his coffee, and takes a long, appreciative drink of it. The burn on his tongue and bitterness drive away a metallic taste that’s clung to his tongue. As soon as he swallows, it comes back. It always comes back. Alongside the exhaustion, the taste of metal seemed to refuse to leave him for long.  
  
“Will,” a voice calls over his shoulder as he’s wincing. He looks up towards the voice in sluggish surprise and it feels like his eyes have to catch up with his skull.  
  
As Alana approaches him, his mind has a chance to try to observe and process. Alana is impeccable as always – one of her dressed wrapped tight and tied firmly; her hair is styled into careful, romantic waves; her make up is pleasing and professional. So impeccable is she that she could only possibly be outdone by her companion.   
  
“Alana,” he greets with a smile that’s a little lopsided. “And Dr. Lecter.”  
  
Hannibal is somehow dressed now in a way that makes his party attire seem casual in reflection. A jacket and ascot has been one-upped by a tie perfectly knotted and tucked along with his shirt under a vest. The fabric, style, and tailoring couldn’t be more perfect, which seems a strange thought when presented with combinations of pastel paisley and plaid.  
  
Will feels so strange standing in front of two such put together people when what he feels is very nearly the exact opposite of _put-together_.  
  
“It’s nice to be remembered,” Hannibal replies. His smile is also lopsided, but softly, kindly.  
  
While _the dream_ hasn’t returned again over the past few weeks, others have taken its place. Interspersed with vague inklings of a chill in his spine or the warm puff of breath, he has dreamt of a touch to his arm while words are whispered that make sense when asleep but muddle upon waking. He dreams of being touched and of longing to tell the imagined man connected to the hand where next to place it, but he is never able to say the words.  
  
“I couldn’t forget,” Will remarks. He takes another sip of his coffee to wash the taste of flint from his mouth. “How are you, Dr. Lecter?”  
  
“I’m doing well. Thank you for asking, Will,” Hannibal says, the turn in his lips turning deeper. His expression turns teasingly admonishing as he looks towards Alana and adds, “Although Alana and I were just discussing something terribly melancholy.”  
  
Alana’s expression is good-natured – an inside joke, it seems. “We were talking about the student,” she explains for Will.  
  
“Ah, yes,” Will sighs with a reluctant nod. A headache builds and sharpens behind his forehead. He takes another large drink of his coffee hopes it can do away with the pain too.  
  
_The student_ has been a constant whisper across campus since news broke of a murder. Just at the start of the semester, a PhD student in Geoscience was discovered in his lab merged with the skeleton of one of his beasts. The murder of a student alone would cause whispers, that it was so brutal only added to the rumors, and that it’s gone unsolved so long has risen it to the level of legend. Being in a department in the academic faraway, Will has no reason to ever have known the student. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he’s any less likely to hear about him or that he feels any less familiar.   
  
“You look sick, Will,” Alana observes, frowning and wrinkling her brow. “Are you feeling well?”  
  
“Just tired,” he says plainly as he rubs at his cheek. His skin is still smooth under his fingers. He’s only just barely been able to shave in the morning. “Maybe a bit under the weather.”  
  
“Have you been eating well?” Hannibal asks. “Coffee is not a solid substitute for a good meal.”  
  
“I haven’t had much energy for cooking,” Will admits.   
  
“A great contradiction: lacking in energy for that which would give you energy,” Hannibal observes. “The feast is life. You put the life in your belly and you live.”  
  
Alana laughs quietly, kindly – something just a little louder than a simple smile. Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she tells Will, “If it wasn’t clear enough from the party, Hannibal is very passionate about food.”  
  
Alana’s comment catches Will’s attention – or rather what catches is the feeling of normalcy that she brings about. As foggy as his head feels, he’s noticed at least once before that Alana makes Hannibal’s odd contributions more normal, easier for Will to digest and absorb as his own. Will has always had an unintentional skill in absorbing and integrating others’ mannerisms. He picks up a idiom with ease and finds accents at the tip of his tongue by accident. Alana makes Hannibal even easier to swallow.  
  
“Another thing difficult to forget,” Will remarks. There is a rush of students through the area around them, a signal of time outside the clock. “What I need to _not_ forget is to attend my own office hours. I’m sure my students will have a lot of questions for me to clarify.”  
  
“I’ll join you,” Alana says, speaking to Will but looking quickly at Hannibal. “I’m going your way.”  
  
Alana follows him back up the stairs and down the hallway. Although they have the subject matter of psychology in common, they are technically in different departments and her office is nowhere near “on the way.” Nonetheless, she nonchalantly enters his office after him and although he leaves the door open on the way in, she closes it.   
  
“What can I do for you, Alana?” he asks, as he sets his coffee on the desk and takes off his messenger bag to lay it down too.   
  
She stands behind one of his chairs on the opposite side of the desk and grips at the back with her hands as she leans. “What can I do for _you_ , Will?” she asks instead.  
  
“You can put me out of my misery and tell me what you want,” he sighs as he busies himself with unclasping and unzipping his bag to pull out his computer and papers.  
  
“Hannibal asked for your number,” she informs him.  
  
He looks up at her curiously with a scrunch of his brow against the ache that pounds with the attempt at focusing. “Just now?”  
  
Alana nods her head vaguely and answers, “He’s wanted it since the party and just asked for it now.”  
  
“Why did he wait?” he asks.  
  
“Why have you?” she answers.  
  
Will has hated and loved that Alana is a psychologist in academia and private practice. She’s easier to understand that way but harder to distract. She is taken in with the authenticity of his uncertainty but won’t let him off the hook for his inaction. Naturally, after so many dreams, Will has considered asking Alana for help, but never followed through. I told himself too much time has passed to make it natural, while too much confusion clouds his resolve.  
  
“The party was a setup,” Will remarks. “You’re playing matchmaker.”  
  
“Is that a problem?” she questions, no argument to be found. “Do you not want me to give him your number?”  
  
“No,” he replies, hoping he doesn’t sound as earnest as he feels. “You can.”  
  
“Good,” she praises with a smile and a nod. With a twist of her hand, she produces a crisp, white business card. “Here’s his card. It’s only fair.”  
  
When she leans forward to hand it to him, he leans too. They both stretch their reach across the space. Once he has the card between his fingers, he flips it in his hand. The front has an elegant, swooping script evocative of royalty and priceless heirlooms. Down below the office number, a cell phone number is written in pen with equally elegant handwriting.   
  
He flips the card in between his fingers after Alana leaves and until a student arrives exactly at the start of his hours. He tucks the card away like a secret into his coat pocket next to his folding knife. Even hidden away, thoughts of the card continue to interrupt. He thinks of the card when a student explains what exactly she made of the mess he’d presented and has to tuck the thought away too into a darker pocket of his mind. However, the thought doesn’t stay put quite as well as its subject does and he continues this tug of war through the rest of his day, into his evening drive home, and as he gets into bed for the night. That night has another dream of Hannibal. The memory of the touch of his hand on Will’s arm is a starting point for an absurd tailspin of wishing and wanting with a business card as its rudder.  
  
Will wakes again the next morning to his hole once again clenching on nothing and his heart pounding in his chest. Fear, regret, excitement, disappointment – they swirl until the metallic taste in his mouth almost turns too bitter to the point of nauseating. His skin feels as tight as a rubber band and his chest resists the pull as he takes a deep breath. He’s learned he has to use this surge of wakefulness before it collapses entirely. And so, despite the protests of his skin and muscles, he swings himself out of bed. His head rushes as he stands and dogs pace in excitement at his feet. Although it’s a Saturday, he dresses as soon as he’s let his dogs out – another lesson he’s learned in utilizing his momentum.  
  
When he goes to fetch his dogs after he’s clothed, he discovers another morning visitor. Dogs once again circle in a display of friendliness that proves them to be fairly poor watchdogs. When Winston runs to Will’s side, the dog offers care and vigilance but not defense or protection. With his arms filled with some sort of containers or boxes, Hannibal has little chance to appease their desire for attention, but his approach is nonetheless much more graceful than Alana’s had been. He takes his steps with the confidence that the dogs will move around his feet and the ground will be as even as it ought to be.  
  
“Good morning,” Hannibal greets easily.  
  
“Good morning,” Will replies as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Are surprise morning visits a piece of academic etiquette no one told me about?”  
  
“Not at all,” Hannibal says with a quick laugh that flashes the edges of a couple of the sharper teeth. “I simply brought you breakfast.”  
  
“First my number, now my address,” Will remarks with a grumble.  
  
“I hope I’ve not caused any problems,” Hannibal says with a tinge of remorse. “I’m afraid Alana was just indulging me.”  
  
Will looks at Hannibal with his styled hair and his fancy jacket, carrying carefully prepared food in his arms while surrounded by Will’s dogs. His lips twitch in a smile. “No problem,” he replies. “Please, come in.”  
  
Will whistles for his dogs and they gather back around his feet. They rush in through the open door and follow him to the kitchen. The little ones rear up on their back legs to dance and beg for their breakfast. Will tsks his tongue as he kneels to disperse the competition as he ladles scoops of breakfast into various dishes on the floor.  
  
“You provide well for your dogs,” Hannibal observes.  
  
Will pats at Buster’s back as he threatens to eat just a bit too quickly and scratches behind Ellie’s ear to make sure she doesn’t wander away and miss her chance to eat before one of her brothers steals her portion. “I have to,” he says simply.  
  
“And providing for yourself?” Hannibal challenges. The smoothness of accent and tone gives Will the feeling of being faithfully led like a dog might corral a sheep.  
  
“That feels more optional,” Will sighs as the weight of exhaustion pulls stronger and stronger at his arm with each pet along Max’s back.  
  
“You have them in your charge,” Hannibal counters. “You must care well for yourself to care well for them.”  
  
“Easier said than done,” he comments, though he already knows he’s been guided to the corral.   
  
“I hope to grant you a reprieve,” Hannibal announces.  
  
When Will returns to his feet and pulls his attention away from the dogs, he notices Hannibal peeling away his coat and hanging it on the empty rung. Will realizes he’s not sure if he was supposed to offer to take it.  
  
Hannibal has set his containers of food on the kitchen table. With a closer look, they look like the beloved cousin of the serving trays from Hannibal’s party – dressed down for necessary convenience, but still insisting on the expense. Hannibal lifts the lids to reveal a soft billow of steam and perfectly-crafted plates of food on white china. There are a variety of flashy colors and none the elements have seemed to stray from their selected place during the course of travel. Hannibal also produces a thermos of coffee, which allows Will to feel like he can finally contribute as he grabs two of his most acceptable mugs to set down on the table.  
  
The room is quiet as the sounds of dogs eating dissipate and he and Hannibal take their seats at the table. The sounds of silverware clink as they take their first bites. Will hums in satisfaction as the taste of the meal washes away the constant metallic sting in a way that all the coffee and food Will’s tried to make has failed to do. Will’s made himself plenty of egg and meat recently, but they pale easily in comparison. Maybe it is a placebo, but something so spectacular as the breakfast Hannibal served can only be exceptional. As he takes a sip of his coffee, he can feel himself nearly salivating for more of his food.  
  
“What is this?” Will asks after he’s hummed again with the next bite.  
  
“Sacromonte omelet with liver and sweetbreads,” Hannibal informs him like he’s read it from the menu. “Organ meats are good sources of iron and might offer additional help with your fatigue if anemia could be contributing.”  
  
“I feel tired down to my veins,” Will sighs with a slump of his shoulders. “Even my blood feels sluggish.”  
  
“During medieval times, pagan healing practices included a wife tasting her husband’s blood as a remedy,” Hannibal informs him.  
  
“I don’t have one of those,” he remarks.  
  
“A wife or a husband?” Hannibal asks as he takes a drink of his coffee.  
  
“Either,” Will answers. He looks up from his food at Hannibal’s face, so smooth and calm and detached, _too_ detached to be believable. Will’s lips turn in a smile as he says, “But you knew that.”  
  
Hannibal’s smile travels from the turn of his lips to the squint of his eyes. “More indulgences, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Gluttony is a sin, Dr. Lecter,” Will tuts as a tease.  
  
“Yes, it is,” Hannibal agrees. He leans in closer and sets aside his coffee and fork. “Are we not on a first-name basis? Should I call you Dr. Graham?”  
  
Will can feel himself flush slightly and blink quickly. “ _Dr. Graham_ ,” Will sighs with a cheeky huff. “Still feels so strange to hear that out loud.”  
  
“Although your alleged peers may struggle to acknowledge it, you have earned the deserved respect,” Hannibal says as he picks up his fork again and spears a piece of liver on the tines.  
  
Will shrugs again as he licks his lips and tastes salt. His home out in the woods is not the only place where Will has done his best to make himself comfortable being alone. As Hannibal sits here with him, he keeps Will company in esteem and in home. Will watches as Hannibal licks his lips too and wonders how the taste is different. When he pulls his eyes away from the man’s lips, he finds he has been caught staring. Hannibal’s eyes are open but closed off, absorbing but letting nothing escape.  
  
“In the absence of the blood of a spouse, I suppose sleep and good food will have to suffice,” Hannibal concedes. “If you’d allow me, I’d like to make that my offering.”  
  
Will nods his head and smiles as he takes another sip. Throughout the rest of breakfast, Will finds his eyes lingering on the hold of Hannibal’s hand on his fork or around a mug. He eyes the release and the flex of it and recalls how vision and touch have blurred in his dreams. In truth, he’s had more experience of Hannibal in his dreams than in real life. He suppresses a blush and a wince with the thought.   
  
When their meal is done, Will puts the dishes in the sink as Hannibal reassembles his containers. The dogs have been napping on the floor but look up curiously when the humans are back in motion again. Although there is no more food, Buster and Max beg with wide, hopeful eyes at Hannibal’s feet. Meanwhile, Winston sits at Will’s side with eyes just as wide, but oddly teary with concern.  
  
There is a click to signal that everything has been assembled but no sound of fabric rustling to suggest Hannibal has taken everything in hand. It’s not clear who moves first. They simply go from further away to closer together. The midmorning light shines in from the window behind Hannibal and, in it, Hannibal looks blonder, softer. He looms in a particular way that makes Will feel surrounded. His shadow has its touch.  
  
Will drags a hand down the length of Hannibal’s forearm where it hangs in wait by his side. His fingers circle Hannibal’s wrist and turn his hand over to try to merge vision and touch and dream and reality. He places Hannibal’s hand on his arm where he’s remembered it to be and feels it grip exactly as he expected. In his sleep, he wanted to ask for a touch to his neck. The choke of words in his throat is straight from his dreams and he urges Hannibal’s hand higher with silent guidance instead. The touch drags from arm to shoulder to the side of his neck. Of his own volition, Hannibal rubs a thumb along Will’s jaw.  
  
Will can feel the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze on his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. He closes his own eyes against the attention as he leans. The press of their lips is at first askew but an easy shift has them aligned. Hannibal’s mouth tastes of the same salt and coffee as his own, but there is also the acidic taste of wine even when absent from their meal. Though he’s been granted a reprieve from tasting it himself, Will wonders if Hannibal can taste the flint.  
  
The touch of lips and hand is better than in his dream – if not for the simple reason that it’s _real_ , then because it sends shivers of instinctual pleasure down his neck and spine to wrap around his ribcage and warm at the food that sits pleasantly in his belly. He is at once hungry and not. As he is sated, he is insatiable. He finds himself wanting to rebel against the knowledge that, for today, this is as much as he can take. He does not rebel, not yet. When they pull away, they don’t move far. They are kept in each other’s orbit as they exchange puffs of breath and the pleasure of being breathless.  
  
“I would like it if you let me make my offering of dinner,” Hannibal requests with a voice that has become deeper and harsher and, with it, Will feels another bloom of chills splash across his ribcage.  
  
“How much time do you need to make your feast?” he whispers back.  
  
Hannibal rubs his thumb across Will’s lip as he smirks. His smirk becomes a smile when Will chases the touch with another lick of his lip. “With proper inspiration, no time at all,” he promises.  
  
Will sees Hannibal to the door and decides against getting his coat for him. Instead, he holds the containers for Hannibal while he puts on his coat himself. Will is careful and attentive, afraid of the possibility of dropping and breaking something, and he’s happy to return the responsibility to Hannibal’s waiting hands as soon as he’s able. With another kiss that’s far more chaste, Hannibal takes his leave of Will’s house in the woods and returns to his Bentley.   
  
With the sound of the car driving away, Will peels away his clothes and crawls into bed. He whimpers as his body hits the mattress. The sheets feel too rough against his bare skin. Raw and reactive, he wants to touch and be touched not by cheap fabric but by skin and teeth and nails. His hands feel wretchedly open and empty in the air and he wants so badly to grip at something strong and solid and _real_. He’s spent so much time with dreams and memories that haunted and enticed in equal measure. The feeling of actually kissing Hannibal had been so blessedly _new,_ something dream-like that only begets more dreams.  
  
Will grabs desperately at his sheets in tight fists. The fabric bunches between his fingers and he grips harder but he feels no relief. He shakily jerks one hand to grip instead at the side of his chest. Skin presses in between his fingers as the sheets tried and failed to and he presses and holds tight. Heat burns at his cheeks, his chest, and his belly as he pulls in a deep breath of air warmed in the sun. The breath stutters out of him as he slides his hand from his side to low on his belly, moving closer as his hole desperately clenches once more on empty air.  
  
He slides his fingers between his legs and his blush burns brighter at how soaking wet and needy he got from something so simple as kissing. He moans at how easy it is to push in two fingers and groans when it’s not enough. He aches and craves as he thrusts fingers in and pulls them out. A throb at his clit has him pressing desperately around and against it. He can feel the pleasure building and threatening and whines when it only plateaus. The hand that still grips at the sheet feels heavy as he unfurls it and, when he curls it again his own throat, he catches a whine in his teeth. He doesn’t press hard enough with his fingers to constrict his airway. He holds just hard enough to feel the weight in his hand and the presence at his throat, but it’s enough to push that plateau to a peak and send him tumbling down the other side of it.  
  
He gasps and pants for breath but doesn’t remove either the hand at his throat or the one buried between his legs. He’s loath to move when moving would mean letting himself feel empty or alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I forgot to say this before, but please feel free to let me know what your thoughts are! I'd always be happy to hear what you liked, what you're wanting more of, what you're curious about, etc. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

When Will arrives at Hannibal’s house he is alone. There is no need for a matchmaker and the dinner party is being held only for him. He rings the doorbell with his own pointer finger and the one who answers the door is Hannibal. Will is welcomed in and his coat is taken. He is given a glass of wine and, with a gracious smile, he is issued the invitation to wait while the finishing touches are attended to.   
  
Will wanders the living room as he had before – with considered steps and an acute sense of unfamiliarity with his surroundings. The room feels much more open without the many bodies covered in glitz and glamor. It is both strikingly empty and adorned to an extreme. The décor in Hannibal’s home is a level of ostentatious that had seemed to match such a stuffy, academic soiree last time. Now, Will finds it a little lonely. There is a fireplace, a couch, armchairs, tables, dressers, paintings in ornate frames on the wall, and even a harpsichord in the corner, but they all seem like poor company.  
  
When he’s guided to it, Will finds that the dining room is much the same. He slides just the tips of his fingers along the smooth surface of antlers, polished and preserved. They sit on the mantle amongst cuts of evergreen trees tied together with velvet ribbon. With a quiet laugh, Will eyes the painting of a naked woman and a swan that hangs above in an elegant frame. As Hannibal carries in yet another silver serving tray decorated with meat that smells as incredible and impossible as it looks, the oddity of the art seems like a question best saved for later.   
  
“This is truly a feast,” Will admires as he takes his seat. There is as much food on the table in total as Will assumed Hannibal had passed around in bite-size pieces during his party – multiple meat courses elegantly cooked and presented alongside vegetables and garnishes. Tongue, heart, and liver have each been presented with a flair.   
  
“Any less would be breaking a promise,” Hannibal replies as he leans over Will’s shoulder with a hand at the back of his chair and refills his glass with wine as deep and rich in color as ox blood.   
  
Will picks up the glass as soon as it’s full again and watches as Hannibal doles out portions of the liver dish onto their plates. “I can’t imagine what a man like you does with leftovers,” Will remarks with a smile.   
  
Hannibal responds with his own smirk as he unbuttons his suit jacket with the turn of his fingers. He brushes the newly freed fabric apart and open as he sits and observes, “Lucky then that I now have you to join me.”  
  
“I might need to take a doggy bag,” Will says with a good-natured laugh. He puts down his wine and picks up his fork and knife. He waits for Hannibal to pick up his fork and knife too before putting his own to the meat in front of him.  
  
“I have set aside food for your dogs as well,” Hannibal informs him as he balances a bite on his fork. He seems to give one last scrutinizing review before he brings it to his mouth. “They have been forced to sacrifice being in your company. It’s only polite to repay the favor.”   
  
Will’s nose wrinkles this time as he smiles. “That will certainly help them to be less angry at you for enticing me to leave.”  
  
“You would not entertain the thought of leaving them without adequate enticement and, by extension, assurances of adequate care,” Hannibal says as he swirls his wine and takes a deep drink. “I could not entirely care for you without caring for them as well.”  
  
Will can feel a rosiness bloom at his cheeks and burn throughout the rest of their first course. He feels the heat and the blush when Hannibal dispenses more flattery as he dishes out the tongue. He worries he borders on flushing bright red as Hannibal’s flattery grows increasingly flirtatious when they dine on the heart – stuffed, seared, and roasted, Hannibal tells him. It’s all delicious, naturally; food and attention with such luxury Will never imagined before.   
  
After dinner, Will is guided once more to the living room. He isn’t left alone, though, as he takes his seat on the couch. The fire in the living room provides warmth he doesn’t need. Full of good food, Will feels warmed down to his bones and, full of good wine, he feels the burn of it in his veins as it pours and settles in his belly. He almost feels _too warm_ , disorienting in wintertime and in a room and home so darkly lit by the soft burn of lamplight. The heat gives him the chills. It curls at the back of his arm and neck, causes sweat to bloom at his skin and cool so jarringly quickly. He would hide away from the heat of the fire but can’t bring himself to pull away from the dance of it in the flickers of firelight against the planes of Hannibal’s face and the bones that lie underneath.   
  
To start with, they sit side-by-side. Will places a hand on the thigh not pressed against his and feels a hand at the dip of his back. Their shoulders and chests turn towards each other as their mouths come together and another shiver travels across Will’s skin at the poised, passionate press of Hannibal’s lips. They savor each other with the touch of mouths and hands, feeling and exploring every nuance of every sensation. His hand on Hannibal’s thigh grips near the knee as he discovers what is like to open his lips just a bit wider and splays the his hand wide to feel the muscle as he shifts his head to test tilting his head just a little further. Hannibal’s hand splays wide and drags in a caress up his back as he opens and tilts to complement.   
  
As their necks crane and ache, they shift to have as much as closeness as politeness will allow. They refuse to lose touch as they move. They keep mouths pressing and shifting as hands drag and caress and hips, shoulders, and limps rearrange. Will keeps just his ankle and shoe hanging in air at the edge as he tucks his foot behind one knee and presses the other knee into the back of the couch. It is the politest way to spread his legs wider and create open space for them to settle into together. They still can’t get close enough to truly press their bodies against each other, but that can at least become more aligned and offer each other greater comfort as they embrace.   
  
However, even as their posture eases the strain in their muscles, Will starts to feel full, _too full_ , not on food or wine but in the way that his brain might feel too full in his skull or blood might feel too full in his veins or air too full in his lungs. Will breaks away and pants breaths out of a chest that feels like it might _burst_. He hangs his head against Hannibal’s shoulder and gasps and grips at the sleeve of Hannibal’s shirt just above the roll of it at his elbow.   
  
He doesn’t want to say sorry – he _doesn’t_. He _doesn’t_ want to apologize for feeling flustered at making out. He’s twenty-five, not fifteen. He doesn’t want to be a cliché insecure about his age or a cliché of naiveté. He _doesn’t_.   
  
A steady, affectionate hand pets at the back of his head and considerate fingers entwine themselves into his hair. A rumble in Hannibal’s chest reverberates against Will’s cheek and forehead as Hannibal reassures, “There is plenty of precedent, documented and otherwise, for the desire to connect deeply spiritually before connecting physically.”  
  
“It’s not that I don’t want you, I promise,” Will says. The muffle of fabric against lips makes it a mumble. “I just—I don’t know.”  
  
Hannibal next presses a kiss to his hair. “I have every faith that you will know when the time is right,” Hannibal says with the confidence of belief.   
  
Will can feel Hannibal pull back and crane his neck slightly to better look at him and, when Will looks up, catching Hannibal’s eye contact makes him feel _raw_. As Hannibal encourages him to sit upright and away with a hand at the nape of his neck, the tenderness is what keeps Will from feeling rejected.   
  
“Can you be patient?” Will asks. He scans Hannibal’s expression for the signs of rejection that he is afraid to find. He looks for a hint of a frown in his lips or brow. He checks and double-checks that Hannibal’s eyes aren’t suddenly lacking a particular kind of light behind his eyes – the kind of light that Will had grown used to since they made a meal of a heart. But even in the flickering light of the fire, the glint in Hannibal’s eyes remains steady.   
  
“Patience is a virtue that I have in abundance,” Hannibal assures as Will blinks away.   
  
“A different kind of gluttony,” Will admires with a soft laugh. “Gluttonous patience.”  
  
“A gluttony that can only be shared,” Hannibal remarks as he strokes at the slightly sweaty, sensitive skin at the back of Will’s neck. “Lust doesn’t have to be the only sin with intimacy.”  
  
Will squints his eyes, furrows his brows, and teases, “What would God say about how you’ve managed to make abstinence sinful?”   
  
Hannibal laughs like praise. His fingers at Will’s nape pull at hairs that seem to then tug at a network of fizzling, tingling nerves that spread across his neck and down his spine. “Anything can be made to seem sinful depending on the perspective and definition you prefer,” Hannibal proclaims. “Such is the nebulous nature of sin.”  
  
“Then who am I to question the scholar in sin?” Will says as he shivers and instinctually rolls his neck towards the source.   
  
Hannibal places a kiss to the center of Will’s forehead and assures, “You are always encouraged to question, dear Will.”   
  
There’s an ache that sets in when Will pulls away, an ache that intensifies at the open and close of the front door, and deepens on his drive home – a pressure, a fullness, an emptiness, a pain. It doesn’t abate at his own front door, when he lets his dogs out, or after he’s retreated into his home. It still throbs low in his belly as Buster jumps into his lap.   
  
Although he doesn’t often let the dogs get away with such a thing, he finds himself allowing it. The clenching pain tightens like a fist might grip at his insides as the little dog sits on his knees and sniffs over where the ache has its hold in his belly. He pets at Buster’s back curiously as the fur shifts and heaves with loud snuffles of air and he furrows his brows at the little dog’s determination. Will knows he wasn’t so lacking in grace that he spilled on himself at dinner, but Buster’s insistence makes him question. He brushes his hand over the fabric of his shirt and, although, as expected, he finds nothing, he does discover that the brief pressure of pressing down with his fingers and palm helps with the discomfort.   
  
He shoos Buster away with gentle but firm hands. When the dog drops to the floor on semi-graceful feet, Will stands, unbuckles his belt, and pushes his pants down and away. His pants are tossed in a hamper along with his shirt. His bed frame squeaks as he crawls onto his bed with a hand still held low between his hips. Stripped down to his boxers, he slides his hand under the waistband and digs with the heel of it against tensed skin and muscle. A gasp wrenches from his throat as pain is just as intense as the relief.   
  
When he closes his eyes, the memory of a flicker of firelight dances behind his eyelids and recalling the heat in Hannibal’s touch and attention inflames his senses. His nerves are so eager for sensation that he very nearly feels it as if it were real as if Hannibal were truly next to him, touching him. He wishes that he could at least have Hannibal’s mouth on his neck as his fingers work away the knot at Will’s belly. He turns his head on his pillow and wishes there was a head on the other pillow and a mouth to press back. Hannibal’s hands are surer than Will’s, just as Hannibal seems constantly and consistently assured. He imagines he knows how Hannibal would dutifully rub and stroke away his pain.   
  
_I would delight in caring for you in all things_ , he imagines Hannibal would whisper in his ear, if only Will would let him. He envisions how Hannibal would praise him simply for accepting the care. Just as Will had done after their breakfast, his thoughts of Hannibal entice him to touch and as pleasure consumes and subsumes the pain, it’s an ache for Hannibal’s presence that remains.   
  
This becomes ritual. He has dinner at Hannibal’s with regularity. It starts with time together only on the weekends, but dinners soon bleed into weekdays and, by the turn of winter into spring, he dines at Hannibal’s house more often than not. Hannibal serves him good food, they eat together and talk, and, after dinner, they touch and kiss each other in front of the fire even as the weather starts to turn warm. When time or feelings of overwhelm dictate, Will drives home and touches himself in the dark before he finally lets himself sleep.   
  
It’s not without its downsides. His home has always been strategically distant and he pays for this in the energy required to drive back and forth. Will drives home in the pitch-black dark to return to a cold house with dogs desperate for his attention. When he slips under the sheets, his bed feels empty and cold. The fire that burns in his home doesn’t burn as bright and warm as Hannibal’s.   
  
He uses what energy he does manage to have leftover to play with his dogs. They miss him when he’s away. Winston and Buster, in particular, seem especially intent on him making up for the missing attention. Winston seemingly stares at him during the dog’s every waking moment and, while all the dogs sniff him in interest and curiosity when he arrives home, Buster seems singularly determined to jump into his lap and conduct his inspection. At first, Will thinks it’s that they associate him with the food Hannibal provides.  
  
The dogs now whine when he leaves for work in the morning. The click of his tongue is enough to get them to back away from the door and keep them from trying to slip out with him, but they still disobey and voice their disapproval. He considers whether he should ask Hannibal to have dinner at Will’s house – he knows he _could_. With the ice on the lake melted away, it wouldn’t be too hard to fish for a meal and Will might be able to cook something with it to even meet Hannibal’s standards.   
  
Maybe he should ask soon. With all the driving and exhaustion, Will’s students’ patience might finally fracture. A student has glared at him with such intensifying silent intensity that Will is equally curious and concerned about what the student might actually say if he spoke. As he lectures, the student’s frown is almost as vicious as a snarl. Will can feel harsh, cutting eyes on him as he walks around the room as he talks. He looks out towards the crowd of students without looking _at_ them. In one hand, he holds a stack of papers stapled together to offer a reminder of what all he hopes to remember to say. His other hand, by unintentional habit, anchors itself at his stomach. He paces another loop around the table at the front. As he passes his podium, he feels a thump.   
  
He pauses, dropping his papers with a light thud against the surface of the podium. That hand holds instead at the wooden edge as the other presses deeper and harder at his middle. He feels dismay, neither sure what he felt nor that he even felt it. It is a feeling so strange and foreign that it is easier accepted as simply a momentary lapse in his imagination than reality. He only hopes to allow it that singular moment as he catches his breath and continues his lecture.   
  
He is barely two sentences in again when the thump happens a second time. It’s not an emotional pang of stage fright or embarrassment, nor the clench of a cramp, nor the twist of an empty stomach. It’s a shift not only felt deep within; it is a movement felt just as much outside as inside. He spreads his fingers and palm wide and anxious across a curve and change he’s noticed with diligent hands but given little focus to. It gets all of his focus now. He forgets where he had been in his sentence and, for the moment, also forgets why it would matter. He forgets to breathe and his heart might even forget to beat in his chest.   
  
Even when the very cells of his being have seemed to falter and dull, there is motion and _life_ that persists – a part of him and separate, buried within him and determined to carry on without him. In his haze, he doesn’t hear a polite cough or how the glaring student grumbles so loudly it’s nearly a growl.   
  
His only sense is the feel of a _kick_ against his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is so short! Hopefully, I can post again soon to make up for it! 
> 
> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not quite sundown. The sky is just starting to glow and pinken. As he watches his dogs pour out into the grass, his vision swims with the surreality. The clouds and color in the sky and happy, homey dogs, who are eager to see him and shower him with easy love; the normalcy feels _abnormal_. Will finds himself wondering what wonderful philosophical ponderings Hannibal might fashion from such humble joys. He closes his eyes and breaths in spring air crisp with cold and envisions how Hannibal’s presence beside him might keep him in warm company.  
  
On his own, Will is both present and separate, existing in an imagined world of domesticity and new romance while simultaneously knowing it doesn’t truly exist, _can’t_ exist. Not when, with a certain detachment, he also feels something moving and shifting under his skin – something that _can’t_ exist, but somehow does, something he would never imagine but exists regardless.  
  
He knows that terror and fear exist somewhere not insignificant in his emotions. Even though he doesn’t quite feel it, he knows they’re there from itch at the back of his eyes and throb in his skull. He knows their significance because he _doesn’t_ know how he got home. He doesn’t know if he dismissed his class or if his class dismissed themselves. He doesn’t know what the drive had been like. He only thinks he knows that something inside him kicks and moves on its own and he thinks he remembers that he’s noticed changes.  
  
With the change of weather towards spring, he had noticed the tightening of his clothes. As he tried to shift to a wardrobe for warmer temperatures, his shirts and pants hadn’t quite buttoned the same. He remembered noticing this and remembered thinking he’d never had such rich, filling food in his life. He remembered the metallic taste so powerful and intense that it nearly made him sick and how desperately he sought anything to keep the taste at bay. He remembered how wonderful Hannibal’s meals have been as a remedy. Hannibal not only unknowingly eased the taste but also went above and beyond to replace it with flavors he’d never experienced before.  
  
He remembers these things, but he doesn’t remember ever deeming them notable. Growing up poor, he’s never been so nourished and well-fed. His dad did the best, but Will’s not used to being well-cared-for. He supposes this was why he failed to understand and never questioned the sensation of fluttering not unlike butterflies. Will had only rolled his eyes at himself for the ridiculous, romantic thought.  
  
Pregnancy never crossed his mind. There was no reason to. He hasn’t had sex with Hannibal, hasn’t had sex with _anyone_ in a very long time, far too long to be pregnant. However, as he holds his hand against his belly, feels the curve and the roundness against his palm, and experiences kicks pressing out against his fingers, he can only declare himself pregnant.  
  
When Buster starts to bark, Will’s heart jolts in his chest. Will’s vision has a new sort of blur: one not from avoidance, but with the need for focus. The rest of the dogs have circled back around his feet and laid themselves down on the wooden porch, but Buster stands firm near the edge of where Will’s front yard starts to turn into the woods. Thankfully, Buster doesn’t bolt this time, but plants himself on short, sturdy legs and _yips_. Will’s body readies itself anyhow. His hand falls away from his belly as he sprints towards the little dog with energy and coordination he hadn’t known he had.   
  
He scoops the little dog up into his arms. As Will cradles him to his chest, Buster refuses to look away. The bark in his ear is loud and Buster’s nails scratch at him in defiant determination as Will tries to soothe or distract him. With the sound of a branch creaking and snapping, Will’s attention is pulled where Buster’s is. On the edge of where the trees are dense enough to turn into shadows is a dark silhouette straight from his nightmares: huge pointed antlers affixed to the distorted shape of a man.   
  
Buster jerks in his arms as something jerks in his belly. Will feels the pull to move too – to flee or to fight, he’s not sure – but whatever taps into the little ones’ instincts taps into his too. Only, he’s just as trapped as they are. Where they can move their feet and go nowhere, he can’t move his feet at all. As much as he tries to flex a muscle or nudge a foot, a tense heaviness keeps him tethered to the ground and staring at something he can’t truly see – too few details to recall from his dream, too few details visible to him now. The longer he and the monster remain in their stand, the more the twitching in his belly becomes a shifting and then a fitful _thrash_.  
  
When he wakes, he still feels heavy. His muscles feel as though he’d run a marathon in his sleep – heavy, tired, and tight. Shifting his leg on the mattress sends a sharp pain through the meat of his calf as it seizes and refuses to stretch and he hisses wetly through his teeth. His legs are bent, spread wide and tense as he sits up and curls into the pain. His chest feels just as tight as his calves as he pulls in ragged half-breaths. His heart pounds and his head _swims_.  
  
He pushes aside the lightweight sheet that feels too stuffy and pulls up his thin t-shirt. Damp with sweat, the shirt drags across his skin as he pulls. He grits his teeth at the shiver it sends across sensitive skin, a wave from his belly across his chest and up his neck. He rolls his neck at the shiver, too sudden, too pleasant. With fabric peeled back and away, his palm presses to his skin as it still sizzles with sensitivity. A whimpered gasp passes through his lips as his fingers curl against the swell. For a precious moment, he might feel relief. When that moment has passed, there is once again fear.  
  
He pulls the shirt the rest of the way off. The catch of it on the nape of his neck and the curl of his sweat-damp hair sends another shiver down his neck and chest like ice-cold water. The early morning sunshine casts warmth and light softly across his skin. Under this soft yellow glow, vibrant veins span his chest and belly, pumping enough blood for himself and a growing, living-thing-to-be. It doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like all the blood has been drained from him. He’s woozy and running on empty.  
  
Blessedly, the little thing inside him seems to sleep as he eats a breakfast of leftovers Hannibal had sent him home with. He can almost forget that it exists during his drive to campus. He could nearly retreat back into unknowing as he retreats to his office to work. He buries himself in pages upon pages of student papers, sees only black lettering on white paper and slashes of the red ink of his pen. He crosses out faulty logic and underlines claims with insufficient research to back them up. He does what he knows and he does well doing it. He would do it forever, would do _anything_ to maintain the momentary stillness. He grades papers until his eyes cross and his head _aches_ and he considers getting a coffee but is too tired to get up.   
  
The touch of a hand at his shoulder is gentle, but the surprise jolts him all the same.  
  
His heart and breath struggle to catch up with his mind, perceiving a sudden threat where there is only a light blue suit with a matching vest and cream tie; hair styled perfectly and neatly; and an expression that reveals nearly nothing more than comforting neutrality. Will’s emotions seem to ricochet just as his heart does in his chest and all the excitement starts its own ruckus in his belly as nudges press against him from within.  
  
“Oh,” he remarks with a shaky gasp, “Hannibal.”  
  
“I’m sorry to have startled you,” Hannibal says with his hand still held at Will’s shoulder. The warmth of his hold seeps through the fabric of Will’s shirt and soothes at tense muscles.   
  
Will shakes his head and rubs his fingers harshly against his closed eyes. “I must have really zoned in,” he excuses with a sardonic laugh.  
  
Hannibal gives him a small smile, shown more through his eyes than his lips. “You have a wonderful mind,” he praises.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks with a lick of his lips as he drops his hand to tap his knuckles against the hardwood of his desk. Hannibal has never visited his office before. They have little reason to cross campus to see each other during the day when they see each other so frequently in the evening.  
  
Hannibal’s hand drags from his shoulder to curl gently around the side of his neck and his lips turn to a smirk. “I came to inform you that it is polite to give notice when you cancel for dinner.”  
  
A sinking feeling comes over Will as he realizes that in his daze yesterday he’d not only forgotten to tell Hannibal he wouldn’t be coming to dinner but also forgot about dinner itself. Will grits his teeth and cringes at the idea of Hannibal creating one of his artistic presentations only to have an absentee audience. He can only imagine how much darker the dining room would seem when Hannibal’s only company is platters of food and a neglected invitation.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Will apologizes, softened and saddened by shame. His hand has found its way against his belly and, when he realizes it, he rubs as if it aches. He ignores the shape of it against his palm and the way that the nudges follow his movements. “I wasn’t feeling well.”  
  
Hannibal brushes Will’s hair aside as he puts a warm palm against his clammy forehead. “I thought you had been feeling better as of late,” Hannibal says with a look of curious concern.  
  
“I did too,” he sighs, the dismay all too genuine.  
  
“Do you need to see a doctor?” Hannibal asks as his hand slides to brush a thumb over Will’s flushed cheek.  
  
“No,” Will says firmly, closing his eyes and pulling inwards. “It will pass.”  
  
The little thing that grows within him gives a jerky shift and rebellious kick – whether to get attention or to remind him of his lie of omission, both would be considered successful.  
  
“What can I do for you, then?” Hannibal asks. The affection in his voice pulls Will back out again. He blinks open his eyes and wishes he could fall headfirst into the clarity he finds in Hannibal’s easy expression.   
  
“Just kiss me,” he requests.  
  
Hannibal curls down as Will strains up to meet him. Will tips back his head and lifts his chin, welcoming Hannibal to loom over him and hold him in his shadow. Hannibal’s lips press to his and the hand at his hair _grips._ A rush of anxious relief escapes him as he moans softly, almost a whimper. He focuses on the pull at his hair, the feel of Hannibal’s lips, loses himself in the knowledge of how to please Hannibal and be pleased in return. He learned once by accident that Hannibal likes when Will lightly catches his bottom lip between his teeth.  
  
As Will sets his teeth to Hannibal’s lip, the hand not knotted in his curls instead clasps at his jaw, holds tight right under the edge of it, and coaxes Will to stand. He rises easily, as if on instinct. As he moves to his feet, his hand slips and sends a stack of papers cascading across his desk. Hannibal’s hold is steadfast and steadying and Will shifts to grip and anchor at Hannibal’s waist. The enclosure of Hannibal’s hands and body pull him in as he leans desperately, blissfully closer. Will gasps into Hannibal’s mouth when, across many layers, they press chest-to-chest.  
  
A knock at the door registers in Will’s mind just before another spasmodic series of kicks. He hopes the many layers and the split-second delay were enough for Hannibal not to notice. Will steps away and, on wobbly legs, takes his seat in his desk chair once more.  
  
“Come in,” Will calls with a shaky voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hannibal rearranging an already perfectly aligned tie.  
  
Alana opens the door like she already expects that she’s intruding. The action is long-drawn-out – a twist of the doorknob, a crack of the door open, a creak of the hinge – and, even so, she keeps her eyes on the carpet to give them time. When she finally looks up, it is with a smile on her lips and in her eyes.  
  
“Hello, you two,” she greets.  
  
“Hello, Alana,” Hannibal greets in return.  
  
“How are you, Will?” she asks kindly.  
  
Will can feel what she sees: the sweat, the shakiness, the bags under his eyes. He can also feel what she doesn’t see. “I have no idea,” he answers.  
  
“Will has been ill,” Hannibal explains for him with more clarity and simplicity than Will feels.  
  
“Your cooking hasn’t healed him?” she teases with a tsk of her tongue and a slight shake of her head.  
  
“Will is nothing if not determined to the very bone,” Hannibal replies as he places his hand on the back of Will’s chair. “I will be redoubling my efforts, I assure you.”  
  
“I’m sure you will,” she says. She braces her hand on his desk and leans forward as her expression changes to something still kind, but more serious. “I came as a warning,” she announces.  
  
“A warning,” Will repeats with a frown.  
  
“I don’t want you to be ambushed,” she explains. She frowns too as she says, “I don’t know how I should say it.”  
  
“Just tell me,” he sighs.  
  
“Jack has heard complaints,” she declares. Her words are honest while her tone is soothing. She sighs herself, though softer and less bitter than he had. “Students say you’ve been distracted in class for weeks and yesterday left right in the middle.”  
  
“Thank you,” Will murmurs, “for telling me.”  
  
“I just wanted to prepare you. Let Jack have his scold and nodding your head will suffice,” Alana instructs him as reassurance. She tidies the papers spread across his desk and taps the bottom of the pile on the table to even them. She sets the neat little pile in front of him as she scolds, “And maybe cut your students some slack.”  
  
“Won’t you join us for dinner?” Hannibal offers. The hand at the back of Will’s chair settles again on his shoulder.  
  
“As much as I enjoy that there is an _us_ ,” Alana teases. “Not tonight. I have Jack to pacify.”  
  
“Thank you, Alana,” Hannibal says.  
  
Alana gives a modest nod and another easy smile before she leaves and Will sighs once again as he rubs at his eyes with his fingers. The sigh turns into a groan as Hannibal’s fingers rub firmly at the nape of his neck. The pressure is a sharp ache that makes him acutely aware of the tension in his neck and shoulders.  
  
“Was it presumptuous of me to assume you’d be joining me for dinner?” Hannibal asks as he works his fingers firmer and harder.  
  
Will lolls his head forward to expose his neck further for Hannibal’s touch. “I assume it would be poor manners to reject the replacement dinner when I failed to cancel the original one,” he suggests and chokes back an embarrassing whimper as Hannibal’s thumb works at a particularly sore spot.  
  
“That could very well be poor manners, yes,” Hannibal agrees and Will can almost hear him laugh.  
  
“I’ll bring my work home with me,” Will concedes. “It’s better if I don’t sleep anyway.”  
  
“I would have to disagree,” Hannibal observes. “But I’ll save that discussion for later if that’s what it takes to convince you to dine at my table.”  
  
When Hannibal moves his hand away, Will misses it. He wishes those fingers could dig deep and smooth away all these aches and pains until his muscles are nothing but malleable and relaxed. Instead, Hannibal steps back to give him space, rounds to the other side of the desk, and observes as Will picks up the stack of papers Alana tided and places them into his messenger bag. Under Hannibal’s watchful gaze, Will shrugs on his coat and bag and Hannibal flicks off the light as Will closes the door behind them.  
  
They have to drive separately to Hannibal’s house, which unfortunately gives Will time to think. The distraction of work and exhaustion could keep the thinking at bay and Hannibal’s touch and attention can help to distract him. The dark quiet of his car though leaves him to his own severely lacking devices.  
  
There is no good answer to his predicament. All of the answers he comes up with feel unbelievable and distantly _terrifying_. Whatever logic might try to tell him, his instincts and subconscious tell him something else, something that _should_ be impossible. He shouldn’t let himself get carried away. He should tell himself that what’s possible is what’s true. Even if it would carry its own horror, a human child should feel like the only plausible option.  
  
But, against all logic and coming more from instinct than from tangible proof, he has a hard time calling it a baby – the way it wouldn’t feel right for a wolf’s young to be called a lamb.  
  
He puts his car in park and unlatches a seatbelt that’s started to feel like a straightjacket. Once he’s free, he slumps forward with his forehead pressed against where his arms cross at the top of the steering wheel. His heart pounds heavily and he pants haggard breaths. The only thing he knows for sure is that he can’t tell Hannibal. There is no way for him to think that could end well. Hannibal has shown himself to be someone who believes in the best of Will. He can’t expect Hannibal’s ceaseless patience to accommodate this as well. The matter of accusations of cheating is one thing, explaining that Will might think that the other father is an unearthly _other_ is another kind of conversation entirely. He doesn’t know if he could even say the words aloud. He has a hard enough time _thinking_ them.   
  
He forces his heart to calm just enough to feel it throb rather than harshly pound and constrains his panicked pants until they become tense, shallow breaths. The process takes more time than he would like. When Hannibal greets him again at the door, Will is sure it’s simple politeness that allows him to get away with the excuse of hitting traffic. He and Hannibal had driven the same route at the same time, but Hannibal accepts his apology with a simple kiss.  
  
Will follows Hannibal to the dining room like Winston follows him around the house. The table is already set with a centerpiece. Utensils are laid out in flawless alignment at place settings with glasses of wine and plates of beautiful food. Will takes his seat and picks up his wine glass. He swirls it a few times before tipping it towards his nose. The smell is sharp and sweet and, by now, familiar. It’s a smell he’s come to associate with Hannibal.  
  
He has a momentary pause as he tips the liquid to his lips. In his _condition_ , he maybe shouldn’t be drinking wine – though it may already be too late. He’s drank more wine with Hannibal than he had in the whole of his life before he met the man. He takes his sip and, as he swallows down the no doubt expensive treat, it warms him through his veins and pools in his stomach. The little thing inside him kicks against the heat.  
  
“You’ve gone distant again,” Hannibal declares.  
  
Will blinks back an unfocused haze. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  
  
Hannibal’s expression is sympathetic once again. His eyes are soft and his lips have an affectionate downturn. “I comment on it not to make you feel embarrassed but to make it a point of conversation,” he reassures.  
  
“I’m tired,” Will sighs as he flits his eyes away from Hannibal’s and picks up his fork. It dangles directionless in his lazy grip.  
  
“Denying yourself sleep might be then considered an act of self-sabotage,” Hannibal observes as he sips at his wine.  
  
“I don’t find sleep _restful_ ,” Will insists. The last word has more bite to it than he intends. Frustration rears its head quickly but fades just as fast.  
  
“Dreams prepare us for waking life,” Hannibal suggests. “Even if you are not resting, you are preparing.”  
  
“It’s one thing to dream,” Will argues. “It’s another to understand the nature of the dream.”  
  
“What do you dream about?” Hannibal asks curiously as he lifts a bite of perfectly cooked food to his lips.  
  
“There are recurring elements,” Will recalls. He considers how to summarize what he’s experienced in a way that is accurate but nonspecific. He has only had two experiences with the creature and they were _vastly_ different from each other in crucial ways. As much as he admires and appreciates Hannibal’s attention to detail and inquisitive nature, Will doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to ask more about those crucial details. He settles on: “There’s been something waiting, watching. I don’t know what it is.”  
  
Hannibal’s hum as he chews could either be in response to Will or the taste of his own exquisite cooking. He cuts himself another bite of meat as he asks, “How do you feel in these dreams?”  
  
Will gives his own hum as he once again considers. Fear and uncertainty stand out amongst his options. Curious might also be somewhere in the mix if he allows himself to recognize it and he would be lying if he denied having felt any power or pleasure the first time around. “Conflicted,” he admits.  
  
“Is Alana’s warning concerning you?” Hannibal asks.  
  
The question surprises him. Although, when he thinks about it, that was the soundest connection for Hannibal to make and it’s not _lacking_ in accuracy. That is something to concern himself with and something that’s lingered in the background as an unfortunate possibility.  
  
“I’m not surprised the students are complaining,” Will sighs. “Students are nothing if not vocal about their concerns. I get it. My student loans are a constant reminder of the cost of education. Naturally, they want the bang for their buck.”  
  
Hannibal’s eyes look at him with firmly held care as he asks, “Are you afraid of Jack’s judgement or his wrath?”  
  
“I’m afraid of being _unemployed_ ,” Will laughs sardonically. “I can’t be fucking up this early on. I don’t have tenure to fall back on.”  
  
“Becoming a professor is an adjustment,” Hannibal assures him. “Jack should be sympathetic to that.”  
  
“It’s hard to imagine Jack being new to anything,” Will muses. He looks at Hannibal – proper, professional, acclaimed, beloved Hannibal – as he sits at his dining room table in his beautiful house. “Or you for that matter,” Will observes.  
  
“Jack and I have been in our roles for a long while,” Hannibal remarks. “Mistakes can be forgotten with time. Stories can be rewritten.”  
  
“Only if those mistakes are exceptions and the story is legendary enough to be worthy of a rewrite,” he counters.  
  
Will knows what stories are told of him now: a too young professor with too little experience, too little understanding of professional propriety, and too much smarts for his own good. He hesitates to imagine what stories there might be in his future. If his students and peers were to see him as pregnant, would they give him more sympathy or more shame? Regardless of potential otherworldly influence, the questionable origins of his pregnancy would inevitably bring about gossip. Cheating would be the most common assumption. Indiscretion would be a popular alternative.  
  
“Some stories are rewritten for the worse,” Will laments.  
  
“I’ve only experienced you as someone exceptional,” Hannibal praises as he talks hold of Will’s hand where he’s left it idle on the table. Hannibal slides their palms together and squeezes kindly. There is a promise in the slight smile of his lips as he says, “However you enact this role will follow suit.”  
  
“I need to hit the books,” Will sighs, a deflection. Hannibal’s reassurance aches at it soothes. A remedy can only ever be partial at best if the true extent of the malady is hidden. The hand Hannibal doesn’t hold is in a tight fist under the table as Will fights the urge to press it against the swell of his belly. Since he walked through the front door, the growing creature has hardly stopped kicking for a moment, a boundless energy Will can’t hope to possess. “Unfortunately, I think our time together will be sacrificed along with my sleep,” he complains.  
  
“I would be happy to come to you if the commute is a concern,” Hannibal offers.  
  
Will’s lips twitch in a smirk as he says, “That would help with the commute, but not the distraction.”  
  
Hannibal’s grip loosens as he asks, “Has our relationship run its course?”  
  
Will grips back tighter. The ache turns to a desperate hollowness not unlike hunger and the fitful kicks and squirms in his belly only emphasize the emptiness. “No,” he says, painfully close to pleading.  
  
Hannibal’s smile nearly shows teeth, but they are hidden away as he lifts Will’s hand and bows his head to kiss at his knuckles. “In that case, I must insist on dining together once per week,” he says.  
  
“Okay,” Will agrees easily.  
  
When Will returns home that evening, he stands on his porch and looks out into the dark, searching shadows at the edge of the woods. He doesn’t see the creature that night, neither lurking in the darkness nor in his dreams. Instead he dreams of the little creature growing, shifting and kicking and growing out into his hands.  
  
When he wakes in the morning, he worries it’s done just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

There is a reverence in how darkness and silence fill the room. The reverence descended some time before Will belatedly snuck in and it has lingered pleasantly like a weighted blanket over him ever since. He stands towards the back – near what might be considered the equivalent of nosebleed seats. With such a hushed audience and low lighting, it truly feels like a performance.  
  
Hannibal is at center-stage, dressed in his eye-catching attire and with a voice that commands careful attention. There are no slides cluttered with words. There is only Hannibal and a well-practiced, well-performed monologue. Hannibal doesn’t even pause as he clicks to the next picture. Illuminated only by the light provided by the projector, Hannibal seamlessly switches from image to image as he talks.  
  
Throughout the class, images of Satan in his many forms have stared down at the class with eyes filled with anguish and anger. As class has progressed, so have the depictions. When Will arrived, Satan had still looked much like a man dressed in armor and with great, glorious bat wings. Since then, the depictions have grown less humanoid and more monstrous, with a color and vibrancy that paints each face in the audience. Students of all sorts sit splashed with a deep red one minute and, in the next, a chaotic kaleidoscope of colors. Will can feel how it smears across his face as well.  
  
“Milton may have been too pious to allow Satan to become an attractive character,” Hannibal instructs as he gestures in a graceful sweep towards a depiction in black and white of Satan with horns and clawed feet. Hannibal’s face is lit by soft gray that settles around his eyes and dips into the hollow of his cheek below the handsome jut of his cheekbones. Will watches Hannibal’s how light and shadow play against Hannibal’s lips as he continues, “Satan’s speeches become shorter and his role smaller until Raphael conveys the tale of Satan’s revolt in heaven without any opportunity for Satan to offer corrections.”  
  
The students don’t seem to blink as the picture changes to one of Satan as half-man, half-snake. Even without presentation slides to guide them, the students don’t seem to be frantically writing notes. They simply sit enraptured and absorb. Will understands. He feels it too. The cadence of Hannibal’s voice offers a soft comfort one might not usually associate with discussions of sin and the gruesome depictions of Satan. It’s the kind of soft comfort that Will has come to crave – so much so that sometimes he thinks he hears the whisper of Hannibal’s voice in the freezing cold breeze that comes from between the trees.  
  
Will has bounced between understanding and confusion and between resignation and panic so many times that it’s made his head spin and the world tilt. He has felt grounded by Hannibal – even as Will has misled him, _despite_ how Will has misled him and, by extension, given him an unsteady foundation to try to build from. Across the past however many weeks, Will has clung to Hannibal while keeping him at a distance with such a chaotic, jarring pattern that it could rattle anyone down to their bones. And all along, he has wished he could crawl inside the certainty that Hannibal seems to carry with him at all times.  
  
No matter what Will wishes, he has only seemed to grow faster and faster, which has required that Will maintain enough physical distance to keep Hannibal’s hands from discovering what he can’t. Where he is left wanting for closeness and has forbidden himself from indulging too much, he has started to snag what bits and pieces he can from being in Hannibal’s proximity. He accepted an invitation offered what feels like long ago and in the back of a lecture hall discovered a space to slip into Hannibal’s calm and steady nature. He can fall headfirst into the wide-open negative space to be found in the dark and float in the emptiness like zero gravity.  
  
“While Satan’s speech dominated books I and II, his voice is taken from him with his transformation into a snake: _he would have spoke. / But hiss for hiss returned with forked tongue / To forked tongue_ ,” Hannibal recites. The next image projected against the wall depicts Adam and Eve stood by a tree and a thick, long snake curled around a branch. Adam and Eve are posed almost as if truly paused in time – stuck forever in the exact moment that served as the distinction between succumbing to sin and resisting it. “Satan does not speak again until he speaks to Eve in his human voice and, as opposed to commanding troops and creating violence, he demonstrates the power in subtlety and persuasion.”  
  
The next image depicts Satan as a snake wrapped around Eve’s body. Will can see Hannibal’s eyes scan the image, but Will’s not close enough to be able to tell what he might see, what observations Hannibal might have about the curl of a snack around bare, vulnerable flesh or how Adam looks to Eve with an expression of uncertainty. Whatever he sees, Hannibal keeps his eyes fixed and doesn’t look back towards the crowd as he says, “In his devotion to God, Milton decided that Satan's speech had to be silenced. Through his voice, Satan would be too attractive and too great a competitor and held too much power over the poem and the reader.”  
  
Will is brought back from how he’s immersed himself in Hannibal with a wince and the feeling of something – an arm? a leg? – stuck in his ribs and seemingly against his lung. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he fears the little thing might reach up and tear out his heart. But as sharp as the pain can be and as much as it aches, his heart and lungs have remained where they are and he has learned what motions he might be able to do to appease the little tormenter. He can stretch his back and arms to encourage it to curl back somewhere nicer, even if just for a little while and he can sometimes rub along the expanse of his belly to soothe the little creature into something at least less _twitchy_.   
  
As Will has gotten away with his deception, his world has only grown more surreal. He desperately wants for Hannibal to never, ever know, but even in that desperation, he can simultaneously feel the part of himself that wishes Hannibal would do as he usually can and come to his own conclusions. It’s a wish that believes that Hannibal having this revelation might take the decision away from Will and spare him the pain and isolation of secrecy. Will can also feel uncertainty bubbling under his skin at the fact that Hannibal _hasn’t_ drawn any conclusions. Will worries about what it would mean should Hannibal be stripped of his sense of perception.   
  
It’s one thing for Will to lose his mind because of whatever mess he’s found himself in. It’s another for Hannibal to fall victim to it too. 

As if Will can feel the tick of the clock clicking away at his skull, he knows when class is nearing its close. It is in the cadence of Hannibal’s words and the twist of his lips. It is in Will’s shaky-handed desperation and the way he feels as frantic as the movement inside him. The little thing is only getting stronger.  
  
Will hasn’t dared go to the doctor. Situated so close to D.C., the proximity to government bodies gave him the feeling that there could be a distinct possibility of getting whisked away to Area 51. He might walk into an office of his own volition and realize too late that he simply wouldn’t be allowed to leave. It has seemed to be the better of two evils, then, to remain free and unknowing, even if this “better” means an impending sense of doom with no guidance or resolution.  
  
Will retreats from his place in the shadows, where darkness conceals any curve to his belly that clothing fails to hide. He doesn’t feel nearly as nimble as he was last time as exits through the door at the back. He needs more than a crack of space and the fluorescent light that peeks in through the open door makes more than a few students turn their heads and squint and glare. Will curls in and ducks away before he risks too much more attention.   
  
On his way out, he slips into the bathroom down the hall meant only for faculty. Will feels a deep sigh release from his chest at the click of the lock. He tests the doorknob once just to be sure. It wiggles but doesn’t budge. He nearly stumbles on his feet as he approaches the sink. He braces his hands on the ceramic edge, curls his shoulders, and hangs his head. He pulls in deep, gasping breaths to ease the clamor of his heart in his chest. With another wheeze, his eyes blink open. The sight of his reflection in the mirror makes the edges of the world seem to blur and grow distant. Yet another deep breath only seems to accentuate the round swell of his belly. Even under the dark navy blue of his sweater, the shape betrays him.  
  
In the privacy of the little, locked, enclosed room, Will hisses through clenched teeth as he pulls up his shirt and the fabric drags across the sensitive skin. The little thing within twists and tumbles and stretches and pushes against the confines of his skin. A bulge in the shape of a shoulder pushes outwards and slides from the top and down along the side. Will is at once afraid to touch it and compelled to. He touches his finger against the solid shape that protrudes. He knows better than to expect it to hide away – if anything, the little horror pushes further into his touch. The touch of his own bare hand sends shivers and trembles skittering across his skin.  
  
He yanks his hands away and clumsily turns on the tap. The water that pours out is cold and harsh against his skin, but he sighs in relief. He splashes water on his face too for good measure and he almost feels as if it collides against the flush of his skin and comes away as steam. The drip of water at his neck could just as easily be sweat. He dries his hands on a coarse paper towel and, as he drags it along his blushing cheeks, he catches sight of himself in the mirror again. With his shirt pulled up, there is no subtlety or hiding. Seated and seeded prominently between his hips and extending outwards from the base of his sternum down to a waistband pushed low, there can be no denial.  
  
He clamps a hand around his mouth as a whimper escapes between his lips. What comes next might either be a sob or a moan. The sound is wet and thick and clings to his tongue and throat like a thick syrup as the thing inside him gives another sickening twist that Will watches with the captivated horror of a train wreck. He traces a finger from the top of the curve down to his belt buckle, goosebumps forming in his wake. His fingers curve around the bottom where his clothes cut into his skin from growth happening too quickly for him to keep up. It’s a relief when his belt is released along with the button and zipper underneath. Without the confines of his too-tight clothes, he feels another shiver cross his skin, trickling like water down the dip of his spine and around his ribcage.  
  
He follows the sensation with the touch of his fingertips and another moan threatens to rip from his throat. He has found himself consumed more and more as time has gone on. Visiting Hannibal’s classes only seems to feed it. As Will slides his fingers below his waistband, pushed his pants down his hips, and rubs his fingers over his clit, he imagines it’s Hannibal’s hand instead – touch imbued with the skill and confidence Will always sees in the turn of Hannibal’s fingers and the curl of his palm.  
  
He wants that touch _so badly_. He wants the certainty of Hannibal’s hold on his body. He has the painful wish that Hannibal might touch his belly where he needs the feel of certainty the most. He _aches_ with what could be and what is within his grasp if only he _could_ grasp it. Hannibal is willing. Will can feel that in Hannibal’s every look and with each meal. Will knows how he could be cared for if only it was possible to allow it.  
  
He imagines his hand replaced as he presses his fingers harsher against his clit and slides down further to where he’s hot and wet. He feels himself slick and achingly open. One finger is not nearly enough. Two fingers hardly suffice. Even thrusting his fingers in and out of his hole and rubbing almost mercilessly at his clit, he knows that although the pleasure builds, it won’t satisfy him. He has pulled orgasm after orgasm out of himself as the days have passed. Each orgasm only leaves him whimpering and wanting. He always holds onto the shred of hope that the next one will be different and as the pleasure consumes him, he might actually find some shred of peace.   
  
He feels the pleasure building and growing and his muscles clench either in preparation or revolt. Something is not quite right. The touch is good and just how Will has learned to need it and he can see in his mind’s eye what he cannot have in reality. He can see hands with the grace of practice and without the callouses or grit of roughness, well-kept like the rest of Hannibal. He pushes himself closer to coming but it remains denied to him. He pushes himself harder even as he feels a shock of fear ricochet through his chest. He closes his eyes and there is the flash of a memory he has difficulty truly calling a memory – the feeling of being filled by a strange, dark creature, entered and knotted and marked from the inside with an exquisite sensation he can’t replicate.  
  
Will grits his teeth as the pleasure finally consumes him. He squeezes his eyes so tightly closed that even the darkness behind his eyelids turns fuzzy. He almost feels his teeth chatter as he whimpers and pants as the intensity of the pleasure borders on pain. Yet again, it is as punishing as it is satisfying and Will can taste the salt of a bitter tear at his lips. To have what he wants dangled in front of him and yanked away time and time again make his moans travel his throat like sandpaper.  
  
In the wake left behind by arousal and desire, he does his best to hide away again all thought of that night in the woods. Against all hope, he tries the bury it as dreams are meant to be forgotten and wash it away as he scrubs at his hands in the sink. He uses soap and ice-cold water over and over until his fingers feel stiff and his skin too dry. When he finally leaves the bathroom, he keeps his head low. The hallway sounds quiet but he hardly wants to risk accidentally catching eye contact with any students who might linger around any of the corners. His shoulders are nearly by his ears and his head is ducked low. It is maybe not the posture befitting a professor, but neither were the actions that just took place behind the closed door.  
  
Will flinches against the touch against his back between his shoulder blades. A bolt of fear shoots through him for a split second before Hannibal comes into view. At the sight of his paisley tie and plaid, Will gives a sigh of relief at the familiarity.  
  
“I’m sorry to have surprised you,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. He takes hold of Will’s hand in two of his, curling them together with a gentleness that speaks of cherishing devotion. Will blushes harshly as Hannibal kisses at his knuckles. In the face of such kindness, Will wonders what Hannibal might still smell despite his scrubbing. Hannibal certainly lingers and savors the way Will associates him treating fine wine just. There is a pause just like the one that occurs just before he announces each note to be found in the glass. When Hannibal raises his head again he has a newfound glint in his eyes. “Come with me,” he encourages.  
  
Will licks his lips and nods. “Of course,” he says without the need for a second to consider.  
  
Although there’s no risk of Will getting lost, Hannibal doesn’t release Will’s hand as he guides them away. Will’s heart aches in his chest at the simplicity of handholding. It’s a balm that stings as it soothes.  
  
When Hannibal pulls him once more behind the comfort and privacy of a closed door, Will does what he can to go to him. There is a dangerous art to be found in kissing Hannibal and maintaining proper distance. So starved for and terrified of Hannibal’s touch, a hand on Will’s arm makes him whimper, which has Hannibal’s lips humming back in answer, sounding so pleased.  
  
Will feels the barest brush of Hannibal’s breath against his lips and his knees wobble. He almost lets himself fall. Instead, he allows the next best thing. He drags his hand from Hannibal’s waist to the buckle that rests just between the bottom of a vest and just above the fly of Hannibal’s trousers. His fingers only linger for a moment before he traces them along the edges of a zipper’s teeth.  
  
“Please,” Will nearly begs.  
  
Hannibal’s lips twitch. A breath huffs against Will’s mouth. “Of course, darling,” he says, with the exact tone Will needed, although he can’t pinpoint what it is.  
  
Will’s feelings are such a cacophony that he can barely think. Falling to his knees is clumsy from weight he still doesn’t quite know how to accommodate. The collision of his knees against the floor is painful. He won’t be surprised to find bruises later. He takes hold of Hannibal’s thigh to steady himself. Feeling the power in the muscle there makes his mouth water. He wants his mouth on all of Hannibal. Will wants to know Hannibal in the ways he can’t let himself be known.   
  
He starts by peeling back Hannibal’s clothes and exposing Hannibal’s cock. His mouth wets in anticipation of the taste and the feel against his tongue. For once, he doesn’t make himself wait. He licks at the head first as he strokes along the rest with light touches. He wants Hannibal to feel his reverence too. He wants to erase any thought Hannibal might ever have had about being rejected. Hannibal should know how he is wanted even if Will can’t show it how he wants so badly to.  
  
Hannibal’s fingers sink into Will’s hair as he moans softly in satisfaction. The sound is quiet and restrained, but Will thinks he can hear a hint of _pride_ that adds a pleasant softening to the buzz of his emotions. As Hannibal scratches lightly at Will’s scalp in small circles, Will devotes himself to bringing out more of those noises. He imagines he can taste Hannibal’s pleasure and satisfaction the more he licks and the deeper he takes Hannibal into his mouth.  
  
With his eyes closed, everything else feels louder and brighter. Will chases every sound Hannibal makes. He concentrates on the feeling of Hannibal’s cock stretching his lips and filling his mouth. The expensive fabric is soft against his hands and Hannibal’s thighs remain sturdy underneath. He smells sweat and skin with the faintest hint of soap. He tastes the salt on his tongue and feels the brush of a finger against his cheek, but doesn’t pause or pull away. He leans in and throws himself deeper. His only focus is feeding Hannibal’s pleasure until, at last, Will can drown in it.  
  
Hannibal’s fingers clench as he spills into Will’s mouth. The tug is a welcome one that has his throat desperate to moan. Hannibal’s fingers release and untangle themselves from Will’s hair and Will pants when air comes rushing back. He still feels so wonderfully hazy that the kicks and punches against his skin don’t disturb him. Will looks up at Hannibal and can see praise shining through Hannibal’s eyes, as well as an offer that Will so _wishes_ he could take. He hopes maybe someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I wanted to make sure that this fic got an update before the end of spooky season! I'm already working on the next bit so hopefully the wait won't be so long again. 
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pay attention to the tags! I updated tags to reflect this chapter, so if you're unsure about it, feel free to check the endnotes for a content warning.

Despite his best efforts and the time he’s spent studying Hannibal’s craft, Will isn’t nearly so natural in front of his own class. Will has tried his hardest to do his job at the very least _well enough_. A stern lecture from Jack had come soon after Alana’s warning – a speech about duty and responsibility that cast Will as a gifted child, coddled and learning his lessons in diligence too late. Will wished his challenges could be quite so simple, but he decided to follow the age-old practice of using work as a distraction. He attends every class right on time. He practices his lectures in his head during his long drive to work and constructs the next one on his drive home. Grading has continued to be as effective at distracting him as it can be when the little creature seems desperate for his attention.  
  
His belly has rounded and protruded so far out from his frame that he’s had to take additional measures to keep his secret. What he created for himself might be considered the equivalent of a compression wrap or, maybe, a makeshift corset. Wearing the constrictor was like a soft sort of torture —discomfort that starts off feeling manageable but builds on itself with every minute until they turn into hours.  
  
The layers of fabric fastened together to form something thick and heavy that traps heat and burrows divots into his skin. They crisscross in bright pink and darker purple when he takes it off at home. They feel like winding paths indented in his skin when he brushes his fingers over the sensitive skin. It’s a necessary evil, the only way he could possibly maintain any shred of plausible deniability. By design, it pushes the little creature deeper into his body, crushing the little wildling against his bones and squashing Will’s organs into too small space and pressing against his lungs.  
  
Naturally, the little thing objects to the confinement and it shows its objection with shifts and punches as if fighting to spread its wings inside him. Will seems only able to appease it through strokes and pets to the round shape of his belly. Only through careful attention displayed with touches and rubs offer any hope for some relief. The moment he stops the lurching returns. When at home, he can peel away the unforgiving fabric and make his amends with rubs of his hand across his belly throughout dinner so the little terror won’t thrash and upset his stomach. When he’s at Hannibal’s, there’s nothing he can get away with and the little thing kicks from the moment he walks through the door all the way until Will finds himself at home again.   
  
The contraption must work fairly well considering Hannibal has continued to say nothing and seems blissfully unaware – so much so that sometimes Will notices a certain kind of haze in his eyes. Will has sat across from Hannibal at the dinner table and watch as his eyes go soft and glossy and his lips curl slightly upwards in the form of a smile. It’s a look that might make Will feel adored if it wasn’t overshadowed by the worry that he has passed some piece of his curse on to Hannibal. When he looks into the warmth of Hannibal’s eyes, he fears that somehow Hannibal has been forced to have compliance in mind as Will has been forced to comply in body.  
  
Will’s class isn’t nearly so enraptured. They haven’t been the most forgiving bunch. Their only remaining good fortune lies in how quickly the semester is coming to a close. They will be free of each other soon. Until then, Will tries to keep his eyes downcast or unfocused in the middle-distance. His perceptive eye is as always his downfall and he still catches glimpses of how they wrinkle their brows and frown from time to time. That one student in the back still glares and sneers and grunts. Even with the overhead florescent lights switched off, he still feels stuck under a spotlight that burns bright and unforgiving. Instead of center stage at the theater, Will feels like he’s sweating out the stand in a courtroom. As he runs his hands along the wood of the podium, he conceals his subtle lies behind practiced truths.  
  
“Milgram sought to study how individuals could be influenced through lawful instruction into unleashing cataclysmic aggression against others,” Will recites as grips at the podium with one hand until he can feel wood scraping under his nails. He’s been wearing the fabric compressing his belly for 6 hours so far today and the skin of his belly seems to very nearly _screaming_ for him to release it. It itches and tingles and aches and burns for open space and air.  
  
“In his study and in replications, individuals demonstrated that they would deliver painful consequences,” Will starts, cut off as the little creature rattles his ribs and kicks the air from his lungs. His words stumble and stutter as he continues to lecture: “They would deliver pain to another if the authority of the command is perceived as legitimate.”  
  
The next jostle of the creature against its confines seems to knock directly at his spine, sending pains like electrical bursts that short-circuit across his body creating sporadic seizing in his muscles. His jaw clenches on reflex and his teeth clack against each other. He shifts from side to side as pain shoots from his feet up through his back. He winces as he shifts to his other foot and the pain shoots back down again.  
  
“The execution of Milgram’s study itself demonstrated how easily individuals could be convinced to facilitate and endorse harm,” Will explains next, desperately trying to focus on following his script.  
  
With dread pouring ice-cold down his veins and pain burning red hot, Will feels frozen and powerless. He can feel sweat bead under the bright lights and the burning hot intensity of his students’ attentions. It traps and pools to form a stuffy, humid heat encasing his belly. He rubs his free hand against his forehead and pushes his glasses back up the sweat-slick bridge of his nose. His mouth feels dry. He licks his lips and tries to not bite his tongue at another shock of pain down his spine that harshly tugs at his compressed belly all too soon.  
  
“Institutional and financial sponsors, research assistants, actors, and technicians,” Will starts, pausing to clear his throat. The fabric wrapped tightly around him seems to squeeze him unbearably tightly. His voice takes on another wobble as another crushing pain seizes at his core hard enough to make him tremble. He conceals a groan in the clearing of his throat and forces the words from his lips and his tongue: “They all were convinced that the infliction of harm would bring about the greater good. They chose to set any ethical reservations aside.”   
  
He tilts his head away from the microphone pinned to his lapel as his breath chatters through his teeth. It’s not something he needs to be amplified for every student to hear – that they can see him grimace feels damning enough. “He thereby morally inverted harm into a social good,” Will says, swallowing a gasp of agony with the roll of his neck. “And considered his idea _incandescent_.”   
  
As the ache and pain slide just a bit lower to settle deeper and heavier into his hips, his lungs expand greedy and desperate for any newfound space and another gasp rushes behind his teeth. His knees wobble with the pressure and it’s all he can do to keep from curling inward. He jerks his hand away from his white-knuckled grip on the podium to the stack of papers in front of him. His hands shake as he tries to find the right one.  
  
When his eyes finally land on the words he’s looking for and he clears his dry, wheezing throat before he reads from the page: “When asked to administer a higher shock, one of his subjects had these words to say: _I do have a choice. Why don’t I have a choice? I came here of my own free will. […] I can’t continue. I’m sorry. I think I’ve gone too far already, probably.”_  
  
As his words ring out through the room, he hears them echo inside an ache that’s bloomed in a cavern within his skull. Will shuffles the papers in his hands to stack them. It’s an action that has become nearly Pavlovian for himself and his students. With the tidying of papers, they can all flee. He can barely hear the scuffle of his students collecting their belongings, focusing his attention on putting his own papers in his own bag. It gives him some plausible reason to ignore the student who lingers to ask a question until she gives up and walks away. He can pay for that later.  
  
He has to wait for the room to empty. Through the next roll of pain through his body, he tells himself it’s bearable because he will soon get some sort of relief. When the door clicks behind the last set of shuffling shoes, Will can finally allow himself to stumble to the closest chair. He falls heavy and gracelessly against the hard metal frame and barely-there cushions and finally lets himself have a singular sob. The sound of it in the empty room feels damning, like at any moment the shadow might reveal an onlooker he’d overlooked.  
  
He braces trembling hands and arms against his knees as he stretches his aching back into a curve, desperate to ease an ache that barely softens. “Please,” he whimpers wetly, though he doesn’t know what he could beg for.  
  
The pain is coming too fast, too unrelenting. It isn’t _right_. None of it is right. He tries to massage aching muscles with firm presses of his fingers. He wishes he could rub the tension away with enough determination – if only he could appease his womb with enough attention like he has its inhabitant and hold off this pain for another day. The fabric constricting him dulls his touch – it barely makes a dent. He drags his fingernails against the bands crossing his belly. As his nails catch on overlapped edges, he wishes his claws could tear the confines to shreds.   
  
He has to go home. The idea of his little house in the woods calls to him. It’s his only refuge. He needs to get there as soon as he can. Another pain holds him in its grip and he cranes his neck to glance at the clock. As it ticks over to the next hour, he remembers in a flash: _it’s date night_. He’s supposed to be in his car on the way to Hannibal’s, not stuck here in a lecture hall. Will has to call Hannibal to tell him he won’t be coming. Beyond simple courtesy, if Will fails to cancel, Hannibal very well could come to look for him. Will wants to keep him far away from whatever this night entails.  
  
Will fumbles when retrieving his phone. It slips from between his fingers and lands on the floor with a heavy smack. Will groans as he looks down at it. His head is woozy as he bends over to fetch it. The press of his belly against his thighs is both a comfort and torment. As he cradles the heavy roundness at his front with the meat of his thighs, he imagines it’s akin to how an egg might find warmth in a nest while it cracks and hatches. Will wraps his fingers once again around his phone and gives some care to making sure to not drop it. His heart races against his sternum as he dials the number.  
  
It only rings once before Hannibal answers, “Hello?”  
  
“ _Hi,_ ” Will sighs. He clings to the easy smoothness of Hannibal’s voice and lets it overcrowd his mind so that the pound of blood in his ears and sizzle of pain might have less space.  
  
Will can hear the rumble of Hannibal’s hum and aches to _feel_ it. Hannibal’s tone is casual and almost distracted as he asks, “Are you on your way?”  
  
“I have to cancel,” Will admits, an apology. He lays a hand against the uppermost curve of his belly where the fabric is the thinnest. The pads of his fingers can feel the rigidity of the muscles clenching underneath. “Sorry again for the lack of notice.”  
  
Hannibal gives a concerned sort of sound – not quite a huff or a grumble. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” Will lies and he can feel another pain build to punish him. He squeezes his eyes closed, drags his hand lower, and squeezes his fingers against the compact fullness at the crest of his belly. He ducks his head and sighs a bit of his breath out between his teeth as he says, “Just wouldn’t be good company.”  
  
“I disagree,” Hannibal replies, seemingly without the need for a second of thought. “I find it hard to imagine how you might be bad company.”  
  
Will wishes he could smile the way Hannibal sounds. His lips only make it as far as a lopsided grimace. “You’re too kind,” he says softly.  
  
“If you change your mind, my home is always open,” Hannibal reminds him and Will feels as if he can hear the clink of a knife or wine glass being set aside on a kitchen counter. Although there’s no way he could possibly eat with his insides squashed and clenching, he does feel a sting of jealousy when he thinks about the fabulous meal Hannibal has no doubt been creating.  
  
Will sighs and loops his arm around the curve of his belly. The ache is a dull one at least, for the moment. “Thank you, Hannibal.”  
  
He can hear Hannibal hang up first. It’s a quick and efficient click. Meanwhile, Will holds his phone limply in his hand until another pain grips him and his fingers clench again in a firm fist. He grits his teeth and curls his shoulders further as his legs shift against the pain. He tilts his hips ever so slightly in his seat but the lack of padding only makes his bones feel sharper and harsher. Hunched over and shaking until his knees nearly knock against each other, he hears himself whimpering and panting and his mouth is wet with spit that he struggles to swallow. The breath he releases when it fades hardly feels like relief. As his belly is denied the opportunity or room to relax after it’s finished clenching.  
  
When the pain has passed, he remains still. He has no desire to shift. Despite tired, trembling muscles protesting being held in one place for too long, he remains absolutely still. He does so for so long that the automatic lights no longer detect him and switch off to cast the room into darkness. If not for the clicking of the clock, he might think that the dark could stop time. With nothing to see around him, there is nothing to acknowledge exists. The clock ticks and another pain takes him. His wince pulls at his whole body. It jolts at his nerves and has him collapsing inwards. The bulbs lights flicker back on again. They cast a harsh glare – far, far too bright.  
  
Standing from his seat makes his head feel woozy. He groans as he bends to pick up his bag and moans when he stands straight again. In the wide, open space of his classroom, the rub he gives to the dip of his back feels vulnerable, the curve of it against his knuckles feels dangerous. When he circles his hand back to the front, the stabbing pain that punctuates the lasting soreness reminds him where the danger truly lies.   
  
His steps down the hallway are careful and measured, one after another around the corner and down another corridor. The pain so overwhelms his focus that he hardly feels that he knows where his feet are. When another cramp grips him, he grasps wildly for the edge of a doorway. He slumps until his shoulder hits against the wood and he can muffle his voice with the hold of his sleeve between his teeth. He wood is hard and unforgiving, nothing like a shoulder to lean on or a hand to hold. It offers him little more than to simply make sure he stays standing.  
  
When the pain fades enough, he pushes back with his arm, ignores how it shakes, and carries on. What would usually be a short walk down the hall becomes a long one as pains come and go. The dual forces of gravity and his clenching muscles fight to pull the little creature lower into his pelvis. He has to take a break from time to time to brace himself or risk falling to his knees. He grasps at his keys in his pocket to make himself feel closer to his car, closer to driving, closer to being home, closer to being done. The edges of his house key are nearly sharp and offer just enough of a pointed edge and pinprick of discomfort to offer a little distraction from the great rolling pains that crash through him.  
  
Seeing his car is a relief. Clicking it unlocked is even better. Opening the car door is a temptation. Getting into the car is a challenge to a degree that he didn’t expect. The process of bending his knees and climbing in is cumbersome. As he settles in his seat, where the little horror sits feels like a threat – get home or else. Will usually considers his home’s isolation and distance from campus to be positives. Now, though, the length of the drive is a punishment.  
  
For the entirety of the drive, he feels trapped and very nearly claustrophobic. The space around his legs is too small and forces him to deny the urge to give his legs any room to spread. When he has to break suddenly for a sprinting deer, the seatbelt tugs unforgivingly against his already straining belly. The little creature has nestled itself heavily into what space it can find. The rise and fall of the hills only offer him a reminder of how the little thing sinks lower. With another dip down the other side of a hill, the car lands with a thud that has its parallel under his skin. The little horror rocks deeper yet and presses closer to where Will feels himself struggling to open and spread.  
  
More twists, more turns, more pain – the opening to his driveway and the sight of his house on the horizon is something even more delicious than relief. He parks the car as quickly as he can and pushes the door open just as fast. He braces his hands on the door and winces as he pivots his legs and hips to step out of the car. He staggers to his front door on legs that wobble on the brink of exhausted, exhilarated collapse. He is greeted by the clamor of loyal, enthusiastic dogs and, with the clumsy wrench of his front door open, they spill out onto the deck. He nearly trips and stumbles over them in their reckless haste to get to the yard. Max gives a particularly solid knock against his knee just as another pain floods and drowns him and he grips at the doorframe to keep himself from being completely taken under.  
  
When all but Winston have spread out across the front yard, Will braves a few clumsy steps into his house, flicking on one of his lamps near the door. His home is bathed in a faint, warm glow, and washes over him in a fleeting moment of intimate, coziness that another gripping pain at his belly makes a mockery of. His bed, so well-worn and homey, will be the place he gives birth.  
  
He falls just before he can reach the bed. His knees knock against the hardwood floor and his arms flail to brace themselves against the mattress, catching too late. He grips his blankets in his hands – the light blue will see stains he may never be able to wash out. He rocks his hips and turns them as the heavy weight of the little creature grinds down deeper and harder, like pestle and mortar breaking him apart into dust. Kneeling as he is, he can feel the little creature’s head pressing low in a harsh demand and, in the privacy of his home, his moaning cry is loud and unrestrained. In response to Will’s anguished sounds, Winston whines and nudges at his shoulder, his wet, cold nose a shock against Will’s flushed cheek.  
  
Will grits his teeth through the pain and pats the dog on his head. “Sorry, Winston,” Will whispers as soon as he’s able to use his voice again. He gets what care and comfort he can from scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Go get in your bed, please.”   
  
The dog looks at him with big, round eyes, but does as he’s told. He lays down in one of the beds on the floor as Will strips away the rest of his clothes and does his own situating in his bed. Awkward with weak limbs and the extra weight at his middle, Will drops down more clumsily than he intended. He sinks slightly into the mattress and pulls himself back on shaking arms to lean against the headboard. The tremble in his legs as he spreads them is as much about fear as it is about pain.  
  
Now that he’s hidden away in his house out in the woods, his fingers fumble on the fasteners that have kept his belly torturously restricted. The swollen mass of it bulges obscenely into his lap when at last it’s released. The belly that rests between his legs is huge and round and he can now watch the powerful tension in his muscles as they squeeze as he feels it. The pain has made him hypersensitive. The careful, shaky touch of his hand directly against the tight skin of his belly has him flinching. even the barest hint of pressure feels too strong and too alarming.  
  
As the flinch rolls through him, he rubs feels terror and the awe that comes from terror. He’s horrified and amazed. He’s as afraid of what his body can hold and create as he is astounded. He’s been grappling with an illusion. He’s not felt like the one in control or in charge of his body for a long time now. The little thing has changed how he walks, how he sits, how he eats, how he breathes. His belly has moved when it wanted and it grew in sudden spurts as it pleased. Now, with another rolling pain, his body demonstrates that it has been decided that it’s time for the little creature to come despite how Will doesn’t feel the slightest bit ready. He doesn’t know how he could, particularly when he doesn’t know – _can’t know_ – just what it will be like when the little horror finally comes out.  
  
That thought’s kept him up at night, only fed more and more by the kicks and shifts under his skin. He has had too many questions to consider without answers. In his mind, he bobbed too many times under murky water and felt himself spiral until he nearly drowned. He has wondered how difficult the birthing process will be and has questioned if the child could possibly come out looking human. He doesn’t know what he will do if it doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he will do if it _does_. As his thoughts sank, he had to reel them back in before he chanced considering what would happen _after_.  
  
His womb squeezes in tight and hot and punishing, pulling him back once again from thoughts of disaster, but the motions and positions feel too surreal. The sight of the rise of his belly bracketed between his legs feels so jarringly unbelievable that in the next moment he sees himself not from within his body and mind, but from above and off to the corner. He sees himself soaked with sweat, flushed bright pink on his cheeks and staining his belly, legs splayed wide open and recognizes himself as the image of birth’s punishment — a primal pain that strips away all illusion.  
  
It is a day of reckoning. Every moment since he gave over access to his body to a creature in the woods has led to this. Every moment of hiding built to this moment when he will be unable to hide or withdraw.  
  
He grips at the back of his thighs to ground himself and digs his fingers into the flesh and muscle to pull himself open wider. As the pain pools in his belly and pulses and rushes throughout his veins, he feels the sensation of spilling from between his legs. The pool that spreads underneath him is hot and thick. He touches a shaking hand to the mess and, as he bring his hand into view, he braces himself to see bright crimson painting his fingers. The fluid coating his fingers is silver like liquid mercury. It certainly feels something like poison as more of it spills out of him to burn at his skin and pool on the sheets like molten lava.  
  
He hardly has time to marvel at it. The muscles in his belly tense as the urge to push takes hold at his belly and deep within. Guided more by fear than by instinct, he grits his teeth and tenses. Sweat soaks down his neck and chest to pool at the swell of his belly and drip down the side, casting a shiver like cold rain across his skin. The pain shows no sign of fading and he can’t afford to wait until the end of it to catch his breath. He digs his fingers cruelly into his thighs until his nails must be forming little crescent shapes and forces a breath from his lungs when he gets dizzy from holding it.  
  
The next time he pulls in a breath and holds it, he puts his chin to his chest and _pushes_. He lurches forward, bending in half as much as he can, and pushes until spots form in front of his eyes and feels the torturous slide of the little thing as it descends through him. The distance left isn’t long, but it is certainly excruciating and miserable. He gives a shout as the pain starts to ease and his muscles loosen some of their clench. He slumps back against his headboard with great heaving breaths. The little creature feels so large and heavy and _impossible_ , but as soon as his belly gives another clench, he’s pushing again. His push is rewarded with another slide that hurts and scrapes within him until he feels the start of what must be a head spreading his hole open.   
  
The burn of his hole stretching wide has him gasping. Warm puffs of air pass through his wide-open lips. Will whimpers and whines, at once grateful that it might be over soon and dreading what’s left. He’s endured pain before. He knows what’s it’s like to have been stabbed and bleed and fear for his life. Even so, he starts to question if he can bear it. He wants to give in. He wants to give up. When another cramp takes hold at his womb, he wants to quit and refuse.  
  
He maneuvers his hand between his belly and the inside of his thigh to reach further down between his legs. His fingers make contact with something that’s _not him_ , something with hair matted down with damp. He cries. It’s _there_ so real and so close. He’s known it all along. He’s felt and seen it move under his skin – within him but separate from him. The tears slide down to his lips and taste salty against his tongue, thirsty and distraught. Another cramp comes but he doesn’t push. He holds firm with his fingers against the skull spreading him open. Only his body holds it back now.  
  
His body tries to push without him. His hole spreads wider ever so slightly with every cramp, but the hold of his hand keeps the head from slipping free. The pain wears on him: the burn as it stretches and hurt when the demands to push are not met. It drags ragged, rasping breaths from his throat, weak and tired from all of his protests. His energy wanes but his pains do not. He is forced to acknowledge that there’s no way to stop. The only way it can end is if he ends it himself. Once he births it, he will be empty for perhaps the first time since he _dreamt_ of being filled with a knot. He can drive out the little horror from his womb and they might finally be truly apart.  
  
He moves his hand away and allows himself to push. He feels himself spreading open ever wider. It hurts so much, but he tells himself that the pain is something good. A shout bursts from his throat as the head slips free and he pants as he catches his breath. It’s just the shoulders left and he can finally be finished; that’s what he reminds himself and with one last push, he feels the little thing slip free and onto the bed.  
  
The little creature cries as soon as it hits the outside world.  
  
As he relaxes back against the headboard, he lets his legs relax and lay flat. His hands uncurl from their hold on his thighs and fall to the bed open and listless. His head lolls to the side with exhaustion and he can feel his erratic exhales against his damp skin as he struggles to catch his breath. He lets his eyes slip closed, afraid to look and afraid not to. The _what-ifs_ he wouldn’t let himself consider come crashing down. He can’t tell his tears from his sweat anymore.  
  
The little thing gives another cry for attention, just as demanding as it had been in the womb. The sound has Winston whining in his bed and Will can hear a bark from the other side of a closed door. The little creature cries and Will whimpers as he shifts. Everything aches and stings.  
  
When he looks between his legs, his heart sinks and collapses in his chest. The silver pool the little thing lies in gives some indication of its size and shape, which is not unlike what he would expect for a human child and the little thing might even have ears that stick out remind will of his own. But even in the soft, warm lamplight, the pitch black of its skin conceals most other details from view, as much of a mystery as when it was inside him. There is a nauseating swooping sensation that moves through his body at the confirmation that he has birthed something not of this world.  
  
The little thing stretches its legs just as Will falls victim to shock and exhaustion and, for the brief second before sleep takes him, he sees at the ends of those little legs the midnight black silhouette of clawed feet like that of a bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter is basically all labor/birth, so if that's not your thing feel free to skip this chapter. You can probably imagine what might be included in "labor" and "birth" for a story like this and later chapters can help to catch you up with the rest. 
> 
> Happy Halloween!


	8. Chapter 8

Just as the sun has started to rise and the faintest hints of yellow and orangey light creep in through the windows, Will wakes with a jolt. He sits upright in his bed and he frantically blinks sleep away from his eyes, heart pounding in his chest. His spine curves and jerks as he heaves in breaths. He smooths a hand down his chest to soothe its uproar and discovers the softness of one of his t-shirts against his palm. He doesn’t remember having worn his t-shirts– or his boxers, for that matter – for a long while now. The extra weight and blood for his belly kept him plenty warm and any opportunity to let his skin _breathe_ came as a blessing after a long day of concealment and constriction.  
  
His fingers jerk down lower. The press of his hand against his belly is frantic and a little too harsh. He expects to wince in pain or ache, but his fingers clumsily dig in and he feels nothing, not even enough to feel the tenderness of a bruise. Pushing his shirt up reveals a stomach that is flat – the way it had been before this whole ordeal. He drags his hand up and down and side to side, but there’s no curve to be found. He touches his fingers along the elastic of his waistband and then tucks his fingers underneath it to search between his legs.  
  
The hiss through his teeth as he touches his hole does not come from pain. He’s sensitive and wet against his fingers. There’s no raw, stinging pain like he would expect right after the strain and agony of birth. Instead, the ache he feels comes from arousal, simmering and fed by his touch. When he pulls his hand back into his view, his expectations for blood or silver are met with something so utterly normal that it feels strange. What slickens his fingers isn’t any different from what his body should normally produce.  
  
There are blankets bunched around his hips. He pushes them back with shaking hands until they bunch near his knees. His legs are spread from how he’d wrenched himself awake, with one bent upright and the other tilted off to the side. He stares down into the space in between them and finds nothing. There is only the sheet on his mattress, dry and unstained – no puddle of silver or strange little creature. He reaches down to press his hand to the sheets just to be sure and his touch tells him the same thing his sight had: soft and clean and _normal_.  
  
He blinks his eyes next at the bright glare of the clock on his nightstand: _4:39 am_. With what little light he has, he can see his dogs all laying in their beds. Most of them are fast asleep, not even so bothered as to sit up or twitch a paw. Only Winston looks at him with the kind of passive curiosity that a dog might give when he notices his owner is distressed but doesn’t know why.  
  
 _It’s as if it never happened, another dream.  
_  
The thought makes Will’s head spin. He doesn’t know whether to be more reassured or horrified. His imagination has always been a profound one and he wishes it was more difficult to believe his mind could have concocted the whole thing. He wishes he had less practice throughout his life with questioning what he can really claim is _his_ and what’s someone else’s influence. He doesn’t know whether it would be worse for it to be real or made up. All the consequences and choices he feared have now been avoided. Even having suppressed all thought of the _after_ , it seems he has not been punished for his lack of preparation.

On the other hand, to think it could all be a dream…he wouldn’t know where to start. It could have been the encounter with the creature in the woods or maybe when he first noticed the swelling of his belly and the first kicks. It’s too early in the morning and too hard to tell. In his bed in his house with his dogs, there is very little that has changed and not much that would help him feel sure.  
  
 _Hannibal_.  
  
Hannibal has certainly been a major change and his presence in Will’s life has been new, relatively speaking. If this has all been a dream, his relationship with Hannibal could be part of the illusion. Will’s heart has another surge in his chest. It beats hard and loud as he grabs his phone from the nightstand and dials a number he believes he has from memory. Will rubs at the back of his neck as the phone rings, squeezing his grip at his nape as one ring turns into two. Worry gnaws at him and he grits his teeth as a third ring starts.  
  
“Hello?” a voice cuts in halfway through the third ring. It is hard to hear an accent in a single word rasped in the early morning, but the word sounds the way he remembers: deep, soft, strong, and elegant.  
  
“ _Hannibal?”_ Will gasps through a chest that aches. The fear that grips at Will’s heart has barbed edges sharpened by the worry that Hannibal may not know him at all outside his dreams. “It’s _me_.”  
  
“Will?” Hannibal says and the sound of Hannibal saying his name gives him just a little relief. Will’s breath calms slightly in his chest but still catches against his teeth on the way out. Will can hear some shuffling – _probably Hannibal sitting up in bed_ – and then Hannibal’s voice comes through stronger and clearer: “Are you okay?”  
  
Will shakes his head stiffly and chokes out a quick “ _yeah_.”  
  
“It’s early, Will.”  
  
Will licks his lips and struggles to think of what to say. He struggles to think of a way to ask what he wants to ask without revealing himself too much. He scrambles to try to think of what could possibly be a helpful landmark and remembers a phone call not unlike this one. He remembers it like he remembers a bulging, aching, clenching belly and a pain that refused to settle. Will presses his hand against his middle to make sure that it’s still flat and pain-free. He ignores the part of him that feels empty.   
  
“Will?”  
  
Will clears his throat and settles on asking, “Did we talk yesterday?”  
  
“Yes, Will,” Hannibal replies. “You canceled our dinner plans.”  
  
Will remembers that too. Although that seems like a lifetime ago, he remembers telling Hannibal he couldn’t come over. He pieces together the bits of information Hannibal has to offer. “Will you bring me breakfast?” he asks. “In the morning?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Okay,” Will agrees. His worries have loosened their clutches just enough that he might be able to rest. He lays back against his bed again and settles under the covers as he murmurs, “Sleep well, Hannibal.”  
  
Hannibal’s hum is a soothing one. “Sleep well, Will,” he says and Will does just that.  
  
When Will next wakes, it’s to the sounds of clinking metal. The sun is much higher in the sky and the light shines in beams against the floor. Will can hear the sound of his pack’s nails scratching and tapping against the floor as they pace. He’s had a hard time trimming their nails. So many of them require a certain kind of wrangling that seemed impossible when he barely had a lap to hold them on.   
  
Will’s inhale is sharp. He yanks back the covers and turns in bed to plant his feet on the floor. He rubs at his forehead with one hand and places the other against his stomach. His forehead is tacky with dried sweat and the hand at his middle still presses flat – _still_ no trace of the harsh curve. A floorboard creaks deeper in the house and Will’s hand’s jerk back and away. The muscles in his thighs shift and tense as he braces himself. Just as he’s about to stand – or maybe even leap – Hannibal steps into view and Will sinks back against the edge of the mattress as his body catches up with his mind and registers a friend instead of a foe.  
  
“Good Morning,” Hannibal says. The expression on his face is a pleasant wake up call.   
  
“Good Morning,” Will answers with a lopsided sort of smile.  
  
Hannibal moves closer and extends a hand to push Will’s hair back from his forehead. The curls fall back again as they slip through his fingers. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,” Hannibal says. “Seemed to me that you needed your sleep.”  
  
Will tilts his head to catch Hannibal’s palm against his cheek and lean into it. “You opened your home to me, my home is open to you.”  
  
Hannibal’s fingers slide to under Will’s chin next and he tips Will’s face up towards him as he tells him, “I brought you breakfast as promised.”  
  
“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will replies.  
  
When Hannibal turns away towards the kitchen, Will follows behind and he watches as Hannibal arranges everything. Hannibal looks at home in Will’s little house the way no stranger would. His movements are graceful and sure. His expensive suit should clash too harshly with Will’s rustic surroundings and his hands should have to search several the cupboards to find the one that holds the water glasses. As Will watches, Hannibal fetches two glasses easily and arranges them in the proper spots at the table while Buster begs at his feet.  
  
Hannibal guides him with gentle gestures of open palms to a seat at the table where a bowl is already sitting and waiting. “Black Silkie Chicken broth with red dates, wolfberries, bok choy, ginseng, and white fungus,” he announces.  
  
Will leans down to feel the heat rise from the bowl and the savory smell of the soup fills his nose. Will lifts a spoon and stirs, thinking of the many ingredients Hannibal listed that Will wouldn’t have been able to identify on his own. What Hannibal has created is as beautiful and impossible as always. Even the simple things are elevated and made exquisite.  
  
“You brought me chicken soup,” Will admires. His lips twitch in a smile when Hannibal flinches slightly.  
  
“Yes,” Hannibal concedes, curt and to the point.  
  
“Good for the soul,” Will observes.  
  
Hannibal hums and nods good-naturedly. “Comfort food conjures in our minds reminders of our relationships and connections.”  
  
“It makes us feel less lonely,” Will concludes as he stirs his spoon around his bowl. He feels the weight of the words settle in his chest as he asks, “Are you feeling lonely, Hannibal?”  
  
“Your absence last night left me missing you,” Hannibal says in a way that holds meaning but has no wince of clinginess or vulnerability.  
  
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Will replies. It feels flat and not enough. He wishes he had a better excuse to give. “And I’m sorry I called you so early this morning. And for making you bring me breakfast..”  
  
“I’m glad you did,” Hannibal says like it’s that simple. Maybe to him it is.   
  
As Will catches a piece of chicken on his spoon and lifts it to his lips, he tries to recall every meal they’ve shared like this before – some stand out more clearly in his memory than others. He remembers many mealtimes. He remembers conversations about work – about sin, soul, and mind. He remembers touches of Hannibal’s hands afterward and the feel of Hannibal under his fingers. He also remembers excuses and lies and feels like he doesn’t remember so many things that should be important.   
  
Will thinks and remembers until he’s had the last spoonful of soup and then sets aside his bowl. “Let’s leave the dishes for later,” he suggests as he rises from the table.  
  
When Hannibal nods in agreement, Will takes his leave back towards the other room. Winston follows him as moves to take his seat again at the edge of his bed. He pets at the dog’s ears and scratches lightly at the back of his neck. Hannibal comes after them and lingers in the doorway. Will’s hand makes a dull thumping sound as he pats his hand against the top of the mattress beside him and he clicks his tongue as Winston gives a thump of his tail. “Not you,” Will huffs at the dog with a laugh.  
  
Will can hear the quiet stride of Hannibal’s steps and the sharp sound of Buster’s nails against the wood as he follows at Hannibal’s feet, still begging. Will has to tsk his tongue at the little dog too when Hannibal sits and Buster starts to look like he’s going to try to jump up against Hannibal’s pant leg. For all the Will is glad Hannibal is comfortable. He’d hate for Hannibal to have to endure a muddy pawprint on his fancy clothes.  
  
“How well would you say we know each other?” Will asks him.  
  
“Quite well,” Hannibal answers. The reply is quick, but unrushed and carries the certainty and raw authenticity of an instinct.  
  
Will shifts closer and takes Hannibal’s hand in his. If his memory serves, he has done more with Hannibal than simply holding hands. But it while there is familiarity, the novelty is still there. As he studies each of Hannibal’s knuckles and down the veins at the back of his hand, he collects something like courage.  
  
“How do you feel?” Will asks and then braves looking into Hannibal’s eyes as he clarifies, “About me.”  
  
“I adore you,” Hannibal says and his eyes take on a touch of the warmth and haze that Will remembers. There’s a softness to how the light shines and the shape is gentled by the crinkle that comes from a smile.   
  
Will flinches away from it and feels himself retreat behind his ribcage at the recollection. “How do you know?” he asks as he ducks his head to hide away his face.  
  
Hannibal hums and leans in closer. He kisses the curls at the crown of Will’s head. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he says because he _doesn’t_. Knowing Hannibal knows him and remembers their relationship is a comfort, but it doesn’t tell him how to make sense of the rest of it. He’s not sure he can even decide what he would prefer to be true. “I haven’t been feeling like myself.”  
  
Hannibal twists his hand in Will’s grasp and guides their hands carefully and slowly to the center of Will’s chest. He presses down with his hand on top of Will’s until Will can feel his heart pumping against his palm.  
  
“I can tell what’s in your heart,” Hannibal whispers in his ear. A shiver prickles down the back of Will’s neck and spark at his nerve endings. The sparks still sizzle and peter out as Hannibal shifts their hands to instead press against his own chest at the same spot. “Can you tell what’s in mine?”  
  
Will flattens his hand as much as he can and tries to focus, but no matter how hard he tries the throb of Hannibal’s heartbeat against his palm still feels like it could just be his own. “I’m not sure,” he sighs.  
  
“That’s okay,” Hannibal reassures him with a kiss to the shell of his ear. “You will. It’s my job as your partner to make sure of it.”  
  
Will pulls back and looks up at him. “Is that what we are?” he asks. “Partners?”  
  
He has to keep himself from wincing as Hannibal’s eyes scan across his face. “Are we not?”  
  
He looks away to cast another careful look around his home. It is comforting and homey, carrying the simplicity and unassuming air that befits a home where every surface has a bit of dog hair. The shadows have waned as the sun has come up and, as light as shone stronger and brighter, no creature – big or small – has arisen from the corners. His belly feels empty with the exception of a good meal. The only presence in his home is that of his dogs and his _partner_ , whose hand he holds, real as anything. He may be losing his mind, but at least he hasn’t lost Hannibal. Maybe he can have some sort of normal, after all.  
  
“I want us to be,” Will confesses.  
  
Hannibal smiles at him and Will is almost graced with a glimpse of crooked teeth. “Then we are.”  
  
Will smiles back as he slides his hand from Hannibal’s chest to where his neck meets his shoulder. Hannibal follows the guide of his hand as Will pulls him in closer to bring their mouths together. As they kiss, Will feels the pain in his chest ease bit by bit. With each shift of their lips and shared breath, Will settles deeper into his skin.  
  
He remembers how desperate he has been for Hannibal and how much he wanted but couldn’t have. Will is greedy with the thought that there’s no longer anything holding him back. There is no reason for Will to keep his distance. Will aligns as much of his body as he can with Hannibal’s, an indulgence but it’s not enough. He sets his hands to peeling away Hannibal’s clothing. He wants everything now that he can have it. He wants everything bare – nothing hidden and nothing to hide.  
  
Will smooths his hand along skin as it is revealed. He scrapes his nails against Hannibal’s chest, taps them against the shallow ridges and valleys at his ribs, and pets them along his stomach and the curve of his hip. Will’s exploration has Hannibal’s cock twitching and hardening and Hannibal groans when Will touches at that too. He strokes the shape and length of it in his hand and groans at the memory of the weight of it in his mouth as it starts to leak. He presses their lips harder together to still his tongue – reliving that memory will be saved for another day.   
  
Will moves them up towards the head of the bed, pushing Hannibal down onto his back with his head cushioned in the pillows. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him as he strips away his shirt and his boxers. He shivers as his skin meets the open air and Will sighs in satisfaction. This is the first Hannibal will have seen of him naked. He is infinitely barer, more vulnerable than he has allowed himself to be in many months. As Will seats himself astride Hannibal’s stomach, he feels himself on display and has nothing he needs to hide. Hannibal can see all of his belly without any risk of him discovering a telltale roundness or the outlines of jerky movements _._  
  
His clit is aching and sensitive and his hole throbs with the need to be filled and the desire to finally have what until now has been held just outside of his grasp. The touch of Hannibal’s fingers against his chest and down across his stomach makes him gasp. That gasp is quickly consumed and hidden away by a moan as Hannibal spreads his fingers low on his belly so he could reach and rub at Will’s clit with his thumb. Will has been wet and open since he woke and Hannibal’s fingers slip and slicken as he presses them back against his hole. Will hardly wants to wait for Hannibal to prepare him. He hardly wants to bother with any more foreplay than what they’ve had.  
  
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long,” Will says. He hisses as he shifts his back and away and loses the feel of Hannibal’s touch. He lifts his hips as he takes hold of Hannibal’s cock in his hand and gives it a few indulgent strokes. The sound of Hannibal’s groan is a familiar one. “It’s not because I didn’t want you,” he promises.  
  
Hannibal’s hands grip around his hip bones, not guiding or demanding but holding fast and firm. “You are worth every ounce of patience I have,” Hannibal reassures him. The look on his face is one of bliss as Will positions the head of his cock against his hole. “Take it.”   
  
Will sinks down until his ass is flush with Hannibal’s hips and he moans at the stretch as he’s filled. Will clenches his hole a few times to revel in it and he slumps forward to brace himself against his hands as he grips at Hannibal’s chest. He drags his fingers against the short, coarse hair and plants his hands against Hannibal’s ribcage as he tenses his thighs and starts to bring himself up on his knees.  
  
Hannibal grunts as Will rises and sinks down again as deep as he can. He drags moans from Hannibal’s chest with the shift of his hips. Will savors every noise and every sensation, never wanting them to go away or end too soon. The movement of his hips is slow but hungry – a moment of stillness is a shame but to rush would be wasteful. Pleasure builds and spreads outwards, traveling his nerves and veins to infuse his every sigh and moan. In a shadow behind the pleasure, there is a pit in his stomach that brings a tremble to his arms. It claws up his throat and threatens to choke him and turn his sighs into whimpers.  
  
Hannibal’s voice is a rasp as he admires, “You have a way of making patience feel like anticipation.” Hannibal’s hands skim along the back of his thighs, across his hips and belly, along his ribs, up his sternum and along his neck as he maps Will’s body with his touch.  
  
The drag of Hannibal’s fingers holds the care and regard of careful study and Will feels how it burns behind his eyes and his brain is heavy in his skull. Although Will’s body no longer holds any context, his emotions burst out of him in a great, heaving sob. Confusion and loneliness all spill out of him in his tears. A starvation for touch and intimacy has rattled his bones. As another sob breaks free, Will considers the amount of time it will take for the feel of Hannibal's hands to seep down deep enough. His breath starts to hitch and his hips still.

Another shiver cascades down his body as Hannibal settles his hands back around Will’s hips and curls upwards. Will groans as the movement shifts Hannibal’s cock inside him and he whimpers as he settles into Hannibal’s lap and against his chest. Hannibal hums and places a kiss right over where Will feels a tear drip down his face. “What do you want, Will?” Hannibal asks, soothingly. “I’ll give you anything. You only have to ask.”  
  
“You,” Will sighs. He links his fingers against the nape of Hannibal’s neck and brings their mouths into a kiss until he can’t breathe. His inhale of breath is so fast and so thick with the clog of emotion that he nearly chokes. “Drown me,” he pleads. He tilts his hips and grinds down against Hannibal’s cock and deeper into his lap. He whispers against Hannibal’s lips, “Bury me alive.”  
  
Hannibal doesn’t make him beg or give him any room to worry or second-guess. He wraps his arms around Will’s back and turns them. The shift of Hannibal’s cock inside him is sudden and jarring as they drop back against the mattress. Will feels speared and caught with Hannibal’s weight between his thighs and on top of him and his arms caging him in. Hannibal covers him as much as he can until their chests and bellies press so firmly together that any breath Will takes has to compete for space.  
  
Held up on his elbows, Hannibal lowers his head to kiss at Will’s throat. As Hannibal pulls his hips back and thrusts in again, Will curls his arms around his partner and brings him in closer until he can feel Hannibal’s teeth against his skin. He grips Hannibal’s hair in his hand as he feels his sobs and their associated feelings once again hide away. Will slides a hand down in between them and uses only the slightest hint of space that Hannibal gives him to rub his fingers against his clit. With each thrust of Hannibal’s hips and circle of his fingers against his clit, Will’s moans grow louder and surer until he wonders if Hannibal can feel them in his chest as well as he can hear them.

Will is so close to what he's been waiting for. He's had to make do with only what his own touch could offer him for _so long_ and all the while he _wished_ for more. He recalls orgasms that taunted him – offering him the idea of satisfaction and snatching it away as he fell but never hit the ground. Will is nudged closer and closer to orgasm by his own touch, but this time he's not alone. Hannibal's thrusts push harder and faster. It's raw and _real_. As sweat drips down Hannibal's face and his hair falls in his face, it feels so _natural_ and _normal_. 

Hannibal’s breath is hot and wet as his mouth goes too lax to kiss and he pants against the sensitive skin of Will’s neck. A puff of air caresses so softly but, like the beat of butterfly wings, it’s all Will needs to feel pleasure spill down his skin and overflow the arousal that’s gathered between his legs. As Will’s orgasm crashes into him, his muscles clench and relax and shake. Then, all at once, he is allowed his hard-earned release. His body finally allows him some version of peace as his orgasm licks at his wounds. He can still feel the slick slide of Hannibal’s cock as he continues to thrust hard and determined in pursuit of his own finish. When Hannibal spills in deep with a heavy groan, Will feels a certain kind of content. As Hannibal pours into him, Will feels the adoration Hannibal promised him.   
  
Will rubs his hands across the expanse of Hannibal’s back and Will feels himself longing for a knot that could keep them locked together, inseparable. Now that he has Hannibal, he would cherish anything that could prevent them from letting go, even if just for a little while. He can't bear the thought of Hannibal being gone when he wakes.

Will licks his lips. His throat feels scratchy and raw. “Don’t leave while I’m asleep,” he says.   
  
Hannibal drags his nose along Will’s jaw tilts his mouth to hover near his lips. He hovers just shy of a soft kiss as he assures, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll be updating my other fic next but I'm trying to do a bunch of fic writing for NaNo, so hopefully it won't be too long before I update this one again too!


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you coming back with me?” Will asks.  
  
He asks this every day now.  
  
Dinner is over and he and Hannibal have been sipping on wine for the past hour. Dinner was served in Hannibal’s home and they’ve moved to the sitting room. They could have easily ended up in the bedroom instead if Will wouldn’t then be so tempted to stay there the rest of the night. To ease temptation but not deny himself entirely, he instead sits companionably close to Hannibal on the couch. They’d started at opposite ends of the couch, but every time Hannibal got up for a refill, Will drew in closer.  
  
As Hannibal sits down again, Will is close enough to drag his hand along Hannibal’s thigh. Lower than the knob of his knee and downward to feel at the meat of it, it’s a path so familiar that Will can feel even the slightest shift in the muscle. The twitch is so controlled that it’s barely there but he still feels how Hannibal tenses and still feels his own lips twitch in a smirk. It’s something so silly and simple – to be pleased that he can ruffle his partner – but he’ll take simple feelings. There’s worse than that.  
  
“Yes, Will,” Hannibal says and it’s indulgent, Will knows it, both the answer and the act of giving it.  
  
He has asked Hannibal to stay with him every night since he first asked him to stay. And even though it has become their routine and Will should be safe to assume, he still asks with some anxious anticipation for the answer. He likes hearing the words and watching Hannibal’s lips as he says them.  
  
He memorizes every bit of Hannibal he can and replays it in his mind when they’re apart and comparing them to what he remembers. It’s like how he’s slept beside Hannibal every night to make sure he’s still there in the morning. There’s still a relief to hear Hannibal say the words and when he wakes soaked with sweat and heart pounding, it’s reassuring to see Hannibal’s chest rising and falling with sleepy breaths there beside him.  
  
That’s how he discovers that the problem with consistency is the strange feeling of déjà vu that it gives him.  
  
“Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?” Will asks rather out of the blue and as closely as he watches Hannibal’s lips as he says it, he can almost believe it had been said by Hannibal instead.  
  
Hannibal cups his hand under his ear and applies pressure around the back of his neck and behind his jaw. Hannibal tips his chin up to study him through the curious squint of his eyes as he flicks his thumb across his cheek. Hannibal doesn’t tug or pull but he doesn’t have to. Will leans to align them more closely and press in further together until he feels Hannibal’s hum like a vibration. He smiles as it makes him think of the massage chairs his dad would take him to sometimes at the mall when he was little. It’s warm and comforting and feels like a splurge.   
  
The press of their lips starts off slow. They don’t have all night, but it doesn’t matter. Will follows a feeling deeper and deeper. He hopes one day to know what to call that feeling. Even with all his careful study and years of feeling so many feelings through so many people, he still doesn’t know quite what it is. When their mouths slide together, it’s something like the contentment of a perfect sensation. Nothing to complain about. The only thing he could want to be different is _more_.   
  
As Hannibal spreads his legs wider, Will sinks further and further into his hold until he straddles his thigh and Hannibal cradles him there with a steady arm around his back. He shudders and sighs. What he has to say feels like too much. His moans grow louder as his voice gains strength and he grinds down against Hannibal’s leg pinned between his knees. His jeans are too coarse against Hannibal’s expensive slacks but feel like heaven when the unforgiving fabric rubs back against his clit as it aches and throbs.  
  
“All I can see clearly is before you and after you,” Will gasps when he pulls back for air. Hannibal licks at his throat and his eyes flutter closed. “Everything else has started to blur.”  
  
Will has continued to look for signs and changes. Although it’s summer, it feels like his house has a draft, little gusts of air pass through in whispers just to remind him of the absence and silence. He spends more time petting his dogs and taking comfort in their care. Buster begs to go out much more often and won’t leave Hannibal alone when he visits. Will comes home to more and more scratches at the bottom of the front door. But even with all of those dogs to love and pet, his arms feel empty. _He_ feels empty. Hannibal makes sure he’s well-fed, pleased, and satisfied, but eventually he has to leave and there is emptiness in Will’s home.  
  
“ _For we are only of yesterday and know nothing, Because our days on earth are a shadow_ ,” Hannibal recites as a whisper in Will’s ear.  
  
Will’s groan is startled and choked when Hannibal catches the shell of his ear between his teeth and the teeth of Will’s still-zipped zipper bend to press against his clit with only thin cotton underwear for protection. His underwear is already _soaking_. It’s satisfying and uncomfortable all at once. He wants the constriction peeled down and away but he’s pleased at how he _gushes_. It’s good. It’s what he needs.   
  
As Hannibal’s lips and teeth trail back down his neck, Will sighs, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  
  
Hannibal pulls Will’s shirt the rest of the way untucked and slides a hand underneath to smooth at the bare skin of his back. “Turning points might offer punctuation,” he says as his fingers tick over Will’s vertebrae. “You have certainly presented me with those.”  
  
Will keens under his touch and curves his spine, pressing harder and heavier against him and sinking them as deep into the couch as it will allow. Hannibal’s head tips back against the back edge and Will takes his turn mouthing at his neck. He kisses over and over, taking pleasure in the way his lips fit against his throat. He gets sloppier the longer Hannibal allows it until he’s pulling skin between his lips and teeth. The expanse of Hannibal’s throat has been there tempting him since Hannibal undid the top few buttons after dinner and the longing has made Will _rough_.   
  
“Punctuation shapes the meaning of every word and every space that proceeds it and provides context for everything that follows,” Hannibal murmurs. His voice rumbles anew. It shakes at his chest and into his teeth and Hannibal grunts as Will is jarred into biting a bit harder. “You have been so shaped and whittled you’ve forgotten that the meaning has always been yours to create.”  
  
As Hannibal describes it, Will feels it. He can feel his inhales as commas and exhales as full stops. The movement of his hips comes as a long, solid dash. He’s a jumbled, staccato mess. Hannibal’s shirt bunches around his fingers as he grips. The emptiness is an opportunity. He wishes his clothes might tear at their own seams and fall away. He doesn’t want to have to pull away to wiggle out of pantlegs. He just wants skin against skin.  
  
“That’s it,” Hannibal praises as Will grinds desperately against his thigh.  
  
The friction feeds his pleasure but makes him hungrier. The more he gets the more he wants. He forgets himself and realizes too late just how purple the bruise is when he pulls his mouth away. He licks across it. The only way to apologize is to soothe and savor in equal measure. Hannibal’s moan is one of satisfaction and Will breathes it in like mist and fog. The harsh press of his fly against his sensitive, throbbing clit almost hurts but he only grinds harder. He hisses, rolls, and clenches as he comes. Hannibal strokes at him and praises him until the tremble leaves his muscles and desire doesn’t scream so loudly in his ears.  
  
“I was thinking of having a dinner party,” Hannibal tells him as Will still pants wetly against his shoulder. His hand dragging down his back makes him shiver.  
  
“Like when we met,” Will says on a heavy exhale, another habit slipping out when Will doesn’t have a thought to give it. He double-checks his memories with Hannibal’s – triple- and quadruple-check if he can get away with it. He confirms with Hannibal how they met, what they have in common, what they don’t, and who they know together.  
  
“Yes, dear,” comes Hannibal’s reply and then they go home.  
  
The party that happens soon thereafter is the same as the one that came before – but different. Will arrives at Hannibal’s house far before any of the guests rather than ringing at the door beside Alana. Will thinks she was invited again and he’s glad. He’s even gladder when, as more and more guests ring the doorbell and crowd the many rooms in Hannibal’s house, he realizes Alana might be the only friendly face.  
  
He is familiar with this house now. He knows which rooms connect to each other and has memories to pair with each of them. As he walks from room to room, he can find comfort in the familiarity of his surroundings. The eccentric decorations no longer feel so strange or notable as they’ve simply become pieces of a familiar background.   
  
It is strange to be back around those who might be considered his colleagues again. When he’d gone back to work, the first lecture had been challenging. The podium and the lights made his belly twinge in stilted memory. He’d pushed through the way sweat beaded at his neck and told himself it was all in his head. Any roll or clench of his stomach could be blamed on anxiety.  
  
He gave more time for questions than he had before. The semester came to an end and, though the student glared from the back until the moment when he turned in his final, the evaluations were not as harsh as they could have been. Jack had looked him over with a careful, suspicious eye when he called Will into his office to review them. It was like a parent-teacher conference that Will’s parents forgot to show up to. That was a feeling Will knew well.  
  
Will’s comfort in Hannibal’s house threatens to be outshined as the guests swarm around him and he hardly recognizes anyone in attendance. Hannibal left him when he went to check that everything was being done just right. He starts to feel cluttered and stifled as groups of guests crowd around until they nearly touch his elbows, but even then Will’s not sure he sees anyone familiar.  
  
Will usually has a good memory for faces but the glitz and glamor are effective distractions and misdirection. Everything seems mishmash and Will can’t recall any repeat faces from last time. He thought he might be grateful to avoid his supposed colleagues, but he realizes that even if he doesn’t know them, they might know of him. Every so often he gets a glance in his direction and a whisper after they look away. Their attention has him nursing his wine painfully slowly for fear that any quicker might make them whisper about his drinking, but even so, the wine is gone far too soon.  
  
Hannibal returns with a hand to Will’s lower back and a fresh glass of wine. “I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long, my dear. There was quite a mess in the kitchen.”  
  
Will takes the glass easily. His smile is lopsided but not lackluster as he says, “That’s okay.”  
  
Hannibal places a hand against Will’s lower back and guides him towards a woman just a little way over. She might be an Art professor or Philosophy. She has the look of someone concerned with enlightenment. She doesn’t stare at him as sharply as the others do and, once he’s up close, he’s not sure whether she’s capable of such a thing. Her smile is stiff and her eyes vacant as she sways slightly where she stands.  
  
She looks even more out of place and lost when Hannibal, who is all neatness, propriety, and severity, stands next to her. Next to the woman’s flowy fabrics and unkempt hair, Hannibal looks more immaculate and impossible than ever. In his black and gold brocade suit jacket, Hannibal looks particularly regal and handsome.  
  
“Will, I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine, Katherine Pimms,” Hannibal introduces as he gestures politely towards the woman. He tips his attention back again towards Will as he continues, “Katherine, this is my Will.”  
  
Katherine winks – though it might have been a twitch. She holds out her hand and when Will raises his own for a handshake, she then catches his hand and cradles it between her two. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” she says and her smile is so crooked and wide. Her fingers dance in little testing touches against his hands. “I’ve heard all about you.”  
  
“You have?” he asks her, though he looks back at Hannibal as he says it. He’s not sure what to expect she’s been told. It feels safe to assume she might know his occupation and his age seems to always be a topic of discussion. It’s usually second only to discussions of his strangeness and disorder.   
  
“Hannibal talks about you all the time,” she says as she slides her touch across the inside of his wrist. “He thinks you’re quite impressive and we all know he’s not easily impressed.”  
  
“That’s true,” Will says. His eyes haven’t drifted from Hannibal’s and the brown looks so rich that it’s almost maroon. “It’s hard to fault him for being particular when he knows excellence first-hand.”  
  
Katherine hums and considers. She presses down harder with her fingers as her eyebrows scrunch and dip downwards as well. “I find that people don’t get their own way, because they often don’t know themselves where that way leads,” she says, her voice thick and wavering. She clears her throat and turns her lips back into a sort of smile. “Not Hannibal.”  
  
Hannibal sips his deep red wine and the swirl of it on his glass matches the look in his eyes. “Being too tightly adhered to one particular outcome limits opportunity.”  
  
“He’s _tense_ , Hannibal,” Katherine scolds. It has the harshness of an interruption and Will is surprised to hear that her voice can have such an edge. Her eyes are slightly narrowed as she looks back at Will. “You’re _tense_ , dear.”  
  
“I’m not—” Will starts, because for a moment he _hadn’t been_. He’d forgotten the awkwardness of Katherine’s hold on his hand and the shuffle of many party guests. He’d even had a blessed moment without the ache deep down within that just sits dark and cold and _lonely_. He licks his lips and looks at Hannibal, who simply looks back down at him. The calm passivity in his expression gives Will nothing to absorb and pull from. A wave of his own emotion cascades off Hannibal like a wave against rock and washes back down on him. He’s soaked to the bone with his own dread. “I’m just the same as usual,” he deflects.  
  
“It’s the heat, isn’t it? I can feel it and see it. Burning up,” Katherine muses, talking to herself as much as she is to him. She doesn’t flinch when Will pulls away his hand at last. She looks up at him like she hardly notices the difference. “A round of acupuncture or maybe bee venom could help calm the heat and the inflammation.”  
  
“Katherine is a wonderful beekeeper,” Hannibal tells him plain and simple as if there is nothing else to say. “I’ve used her honey in many of my recipes – the lamb tonight, in fact.”  
  
“Hannibal has the most wonderful palate,” Katherine observes. She looks in between them with eyebrows raised and her eyes flit between them with easy enthusiasm. “He’s the only person I know who can tell you what plant was blooming just from the taste of the honey.”  
  
“I find that very easy to believe,” Will agrees, glad to have something to say and something honest, at that. He’s hardly sure how to find his footing.  
  
“ _Gracious words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body_ ,” Hannibal says and perhaps it’s the tone or the accent, but it bears so few similarities to how Will has heard words like these before.  
  
Growing up, he only heard quotations of scripture when he’d done something wrong. His dad didn’t care much for religion – or scolding in general – but there were plenty of other adults who decided to take on the responsibility and reprimand him in his father’s place. The words were taunting and patronizing as they criticized him for being too unruly, too strange, and too much what he wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe it’s the scholar in Hannibal or simply the graces Hannibal gives anything he does. Whatever it is, he makes it sound like poetry instead. He gives it his own cadence and punctuation and reminds Will that the words can hold whatever meaning he decides for them.  
  
Hannibal introduces him to one person after the next. He says _my Will_ every time and happiness sits like an ache in Will’s chest. After Katherine, it’s a pharmacist, then a social worker, and then a retiree and Will thinks he might feel relief that he really _hasn’t_ had a reason to know these guests before. He’s not forgetful if it’s truly new information. He might have felt confused by the lack of faculty at this party, but he supposes Hannibal never specified. Will only assumed. He does still hope Alana will come, though. Another scan around the room still finds she isn’t there. He’s almost sure Hannibal invited her.  
  
Like Katherine, each had a particular notable niche – bees, mushrooms, obscure instruments – that of course Hannibal would know all about. Will feels a headache blooming and exhaustion coming. He can hardly keep up as conversations shift. Their expectation hangs in the air and he tries to contribute some knowledge about insects or some tidbit from his piano lessons. Each conversation is tense and loaded.  
  
Hannibal leans in close to Will as the latest of his many guests – _Larry?_ – realizes he’s been politely dismissed. The older man takes this brush-off with more grace than the cheese expert who’d seemed to hover around Hannibal’s elbows while they – mostly Hannibal – talked to a music store owner about harpsichords. Will could feel Hannibal’s patience strain with every politely phrased redirection until the man was all but ushered away by his friend. By comparison, Larry goes very easily and seems almost happy to be sent away.  
  
“Would you like a refill?” Hannibal asks. He’s already taking the glass from Will’s hand.  
  
Will lets him as he says, “Yes, please.”  
  
Hannibal disappears back to the kitchen even though there is plenty of waitstaff milling around the room with a bottle in hand. Will smiles slightly at the thought that he might be getting something that Hannibal set aside special and he seeks out the food to pair with it. Hannibal certainly hasn’t kept him underfed, but his mouth has watered since Hannibal’s mention of honey and lamb.  
  
The guests seem to part around him. He hardly has to brush sleeves with any of them as he makes his way to the display of food that sits just central enough on one of the tables, while also a bit out of the way. Everything Hannibal has prepared is beautiful and elegant and otherworldly. If Will hadn’t watched him prepare it by hand, he might not believe it possible for just one person. To conceive of it, prepare it, and present it seemed like something that would require many rather than just the genius of one.  
  
Will can’t even say he helped. He simply sat and watched and anytime he offered to assist it was warmly declined. There may have been an intermission or two while things marinated, cured, pickled, and baked. Will could only sneak in kissing and wandering hands between timers ticking and buzzing. He hadn’t minded. It almost felt like a game.  
  
Will risks looking greedy and takes a few helpings of each treat. When someone comes to stand decidedly within his personal bubble, he’s at least happy to see he has a companion in helping himself to a little extra. This new stranger comes bearing a champagne glass in each hand and looks like he might actually be a professor. He’s wearing a moderately nice suit and vest with a scarf casually wrapped around his neck and hanging in a low loop against his chest. One of the champagne glasses is empty and the other follows quickly behind as the man tips back his head and swallows the rest of the liquid down.  
  
“I’ve heard you’re Will Graham,” the man says. He sets aside his glasses on a tray as it passes by and extends his hand.  
  
Will shifts the delicate little plate to one hand and returns the handshake, as he semi-reluctantly confirms, “Yes, I am.”  
  
“Nice to finally meet you,” the stranger greets and introduces himself, “Antony Dimmond.”  
  
Will nods in greeting as his hand drops away. “Are you a friend of Hannibal’s?”  
  
Antony smiles and when he does Will already feels he’s in on a joke even before it’s been said. “Much in the way I’m a friend of Dorothy’s,” he says with a wink, “ _More or less_.”  
  
“You have a way with words,” Will says with a chuckle.  
  
“The life of a poet,” Antony laments as he lays a hand with subdued drama over his heart and ducks his head. His eyes look a little more wicked when he looks up again and scans the room. “Have you met all of Hannibal’s sycophants?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Will says as he looks around again and finds that many eyes are once again on him. That includes Antony too. He raises a brow and asks, “Are you one of them?”  
  
That earns him a smile and a broad, good-natured one at that. “I suppose I am,” Antony concedes.  
  
Will chances another look around and his eye catches on a student – _the_ student that glared at him this whole semester. The student stands hunched over in a corner and seems so much the epitome of “out of sight, out of mind” that Will isn’t sure whether he just arrived or has been here the whole time. Even in class, the student has seemed so unremarkable aside from his glaring that Will hardly remembers his name.  
  
“I wasn’t expecting a student at this sort of party,” Will observes.  
  
“Ah, the Dolerhyde boy,” Antony murmurs almost conspiratorially and he angles himself towards Will as if they’re in cahoots. “A family friend, in a manner of speaking.”  
  
Will wrinkles his brow. Hannibal has hardly mentioned family or friends close enough to be considered family and Will hasn’t asked. The lack of framed family photos anywhere in his house might seem to suggest that family would be a sore subject. Will only has one photo of his dad in his home and that certainly isn’t without its own meaning.  
  
“In a manner of speaking?” he questions.   
  
“You know how high society can get,” Antony laments.   
  
The thing is Will doesn’t. There are passages in textbooks and articles written about the upper classes, but that’s all numbers and data. There isn’t a textbook that can be bought that will give him insight into the inner workings of high society, not _true_ insight at least. The only way to know it is to live it and, preferably, grow up in it. Will can’t have grown up further away from that. Looking at the student – _Francis_ – he looks just as out of sorts in his suit as Will feels. Francis doesn’t revel in it like Hannibal or wear it as easily as a second skin like so many others in the room. The suit fits him perfectly well, but he wears it like it’s his father’s.  
  
“Not related by blood but by motive,” Antony informs him when the pause has hung long enough and he’s granted Will enough time to think for himself. “They’re sworn to the same cause.”  
  
When Francis’ eyes cut across to meet his gaze, Will flinches at being caught and looks away. “What’s the cause?”  
  
“Influence, I’d imagine. They always _want_ something, don’t they?” Antony muses. His eyes tick across a few guests behind him and Will wonders if they’re staring. The glimmer in Antony’s eyes is even more mischievous as he asks, “Would you like me to tell you a bit of gossip?”  
  
Will scoffs. “Haven’t you already been?”  
  
Anthony’s laugh has a posh, old-timey feel. Will might think he heard it over the crackle of the radio at Christmas. “You are a _fun one_ ,” he remarks. “Hannibal chose you well.”  
  
Will bristles as Antony’s tone grates. It’s presumptuous, cocky, and a little flirtatious. Will has felt no small amount of gratitude for how Hannibal has been a constant, but Will’s not considered himself _kept_. “He didn’t _choose_ _me_ ,” he snaps.  
  
Anthony hums, nods, and concedes. He grabs another glass of what looks like champagne from another tray that happens to pass by. He gestures with the tilt of his glass as he says, “If you want my opinion, the little Dolerhyde looks to be a bit jealous. Like everyone else in this room. They’re jealous of your influence over the great _Dr. Lecter_.” Antony pauses to take a swig of his drink and the words that follow come out crisper, “Thy Will be done and all that.”  
  
“ _Influence_ ,” Will repeats as he wrinkles his brow.  
  
Anthony admonishes him with a couple quick clicks of his tongue. “Come now, let’s not pretend you don’t know. You and I are both perfectly aware of how Hannibal would do just about anything as long as _you_ were the one asking for it,” Antony states with a teasing curl to his lips and a wink. “That’s what has everyone in a tizzy. They’d be happy to have dearest Hannibal merely _blink_ in their direction.”  
  
Will shifts on his feet and stares down at the beautiful arrangement of food on the delicate little plate in his hands. “Everyone has their limits.”  
  
“Be sure to let me know when you find Hannibal’s,” Antony replies with another nostalgic laugh. “I won’t hold my breath as I wait. I think you’ll be searching a long while and I’d rather have more life to live.”  
  
Will hums. He thinks of the haze he hasn’t seen in awhile – not in the same way – but there is still the softness and the indulgence and early morning sun and quiet snores late at night that fit in so well with snores and snuffles of his dogs.  
  
Anthony smiles like he knows and slips a business card into Will’s pocket behind the pocket square Hannibal had folded just right and tucked in place. “Keep in touch.”  
  
The taste in Will’s mouth is biting and sour as Anthony fades back into the crowd – _sycophants_ , he’d called them. Eyes in the crowd blink back at him. They are so unconcerned with subtlety that they seem almost synchronized. When they don’t blink at him, they blink together over his shoulder like a blipping radar for Hannibal’s presence. He turns in the direction they look and spins towards Hannibal just in time and one of the two wine glasses Hannibal carries slides just right into Will’s hand. The taste of the wine washes away the bite to his tongue. When Hannibal easily leans into his kiss all the piercing eyes on them become blunted until they hardly seem to matter anymore. As far as Will’s concerned, they can all go to hell.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so behind on NaNo, but maybe I can still pull it off?? We'll have to see. 
> 
> If you found this chapter a little slow, just wait...


	10. Chapter 10

The feeling of remembering but not remembering continues to follow Will after the party. It took hold of him more and more often as they grew closer to the start of the semester until he finds himself descending the stairs after class and he remembers how his shoes have made those same heavy thumps against the wood before. He licks his teeth and swallows down the spit that has tasted bitter and metallic.  
  
He is teaching the same classes as he did last semester. The material is all the same, but maybe he’ll teach it differently this time. He made sure to wait to answer questions after class and kept himself from snapping that the answers were all in the syllabus. It was exhausting and he feels himself dragging already.  
  
He needs coffee.  
  
As he’s struggled minute by minute and hour by hour to keep his eyes open, the world has started to tilt and his head has started to ache. He rubs his eyes harshly with his fingers as he orders from the little café in the lobby. He hopes if he presses hard enough, the visual white noise might drown out the wooziness and he might be able to do something about the bags under his eyes. The reality, however, is that the press of his knuckles against his closed eyes only wakes him up very slightly but at least it pretends to scratch an itch.  
  
His hands fall away when the cashier asks him to pay and he has to reach for his wallet. He opens his eyes and moves his hand to the edge of his pocket but when he looks down a hand is already extending out with cash. There is plaid crisscrossing in gold and deep red up a sleeve to the corner that sits atop a strong shoulder. Will knows that shape and the strength to be found there as he’s studied it with eyes, fingers, tongue, and teeth.  
  
“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will sighs. His fingers barely had time to touch the corner of his wallet and he pushes it deeper into his pocket as he steps to the side.  
  
“You’re very welcome,” Hannibal replies simply before he turns to order his own coffee.   
  
Will watches as Hannibal drops the bills and change the cashier hands back to him into a jar by the register. The coins have barely finished echoing at the bottom as they rounded the corner to wait for their orders.  
  
“You still surprise me,” Will observes.   
  
Hannibal smiles as he replies, “It’s an honor to catch you off-guard.”  
  
Will smiles back at him and laughs once, quick and tender. “You’ve stopped apologizing," Will also observes.   
  
Hannibal’s smile tilts at an angle as he lifts a brow. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”  
  
“It was,” Will agrees.   
  
At a point in time which felt very long ago but in honesty might not have been, Will might have described himself as difficult to startle. He has always been aware - _far too aware_ \- since he was a child. He paid attention to too many things and a knife wound to his shoulder only amplified his vigilance. Fortifying himself against others’ emotional onslaughts is one thing. He discovered that protecting himself from physical attach was another entirely.  
  
Will has let himself get far too distracted by himself. He’s burrowed deeper and deeper into his own head and Hannibal’s interruptions only brought him back to the surface. It feels difficult to expect him to apologize for that. Hannibal could hardly be forced to apologize for the stillness and quiet Will so adores and for providing the grounding he so _needs_.  
  
They fetch their coffees when their names are called and it tastes the same as last time: _cheap_ and _harsh_. He’s gotten spoiled by Hannibal’s coffee. Whether fashioned with what seems like a chemistry set or brewed in Will’s more humble coffee maker, Hannibal manages to make it some sort of delicacy regardless, so much so that it hardly feels like what he’s currently drinking could be called the same thing. Whatever it might be called, the sharp taste of the liquid swirling in his paper cup is still better than the bitterness that coats his tongue day and night.  
  
Will notices the vibrant red of Alana’s dress first and then the styled curl of her hair as it turns and bounces as she approaches. His world tilts as he is forced to think of last time. Alana, Hannibal, and he had stood here together before. He knows this. It’s different this time because Alana is the one arriving and joining as he and Hannibal are the ones holding a companionable conversation. He knows this too.   
  
This time there are no new, unfamiliar strangers in the bunch. Will holds an abundance of familiarity and far less uncertainty or awkwardness. He knows more now about where he fits. His brain seems to settle better in his skull as he slides his free hand into Hannibal’s. When Hannibal turns to look at Alana too, the tilt of his neck shows the top edge of a purpling bruise Will left behind - maybe by accident, maybe not. Will licks at his lips and swallows and this time it has nothing to do with any bitterness.   
  
Alana comes to a stop in front of them and rocks on the tip of her toes in her high heels before she settles back on the thin point. She smiles warmly as she looks between them and it’s so wide and enthusiastic that her nose nearly wrinkles.   
  
“Hello, Alana,” Will greets.  
  
She’d arrived late to the party, but they'd still had time left to catch up. He felt he hadn't talked to her much since she'd issued her warning. Without the weight of so much secrecy on his shoulders and a few glasses of wine in his belly, Will had enjoyed the ease of her company. She hadn’t known most of the party guests either and Will was almost like a host as he shared with her what he knew. It hadn’t quite felt like that party was Hannibal’s _and_ _his_ but in the reflection of himself in her eyes, he saw how that could be someday.  
  
“It’s always so nice to see you two,” Alana remarks as she blinks quickly down to their joined hands and then back up between their faces.  
  
“Has the start of the semester treated you well?” Hannibal asks her.  
  
The gust of air exhaled with Alana’s sigh brushes past the curl of her hair that hangs near her face. “It’s _started_ well enough but I’m not sure how well it will end,” she complains as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Seems it’s mating season in the department. Dr. Du Maurier is going to be a _lifesaver_ once winter comes.”  
  
“Ah, yes, Dr. Du Maurier,” Hannibal remarks. “Give her my hello when you see her.”  
  
Will scoffs sarcastically as he looks at his partner. “You still have friends I haven’t met?”  
  
“Friendship may be the wrong word,” Hannibal corrects. It’s neither joking nor overly serious, which makes Will raise his brow. “Respected colleague might be more correct,” Hannibal continues. “Though in some ways she’s much more your colleague than mine.”  
  
Alana looks at Will and offers, “I’ll introduce you.”   
  
“Thank you, Alana,” Hannibal replies.  
  
They continue their discussion of departmental gossip and workloads and classes. Once their conversation is over and they’ve consumed at least half of their coffees, they part ways again and Alana joins Will as he walks back towards his office. The company is more companionable than it had been before and not nearly so clearly loaded. There is no need for her to set him up or push him closer to Hannibal. He endures another round of wooziness as he considers how quickly he gained a partner. That’s not something he expected of himself. An ill-fated flirtation with Alana, sure, but a partner? He hasn’t had luck with that before.  
  
They turn down the hallway towards where most of the department’s offices are kept tucked away. A woman lingers near one of the many posters that hang on the wall. Her hair is curled just as beautifully as Alana’s, but perhaps even more impossibly perfect. The blonde color is crisp and elegant like diamonds and gold. Her posture is the height of propriety – as far as Will knows how to tell. Maybe if she had been at the party, she might have pulled focus. He would have been glad for that. Standing there in the hallway, she looks too put together for wood floors that have worn unevenly. It’s almost an insult to try to test how she balances so elegantly on the height of her heels.   
  
“Dr. Du Maurier,” Alana announces as a greeting. She says it the way Will imagines someone might announce the arrival of royalty. As the woman turns towards them, Alana introduces him with a more casual gesture of her hand, “This is Will Graham, Hannibal’s partner.”  
  
“Dr. Graham,” Dr. Du Maurier acknowledges and to hear her use his proper honorific seems to hold extra honor. “I’ve heard so much about you that I feel like I know you already.”  
  
“Who’s the culprit this time?” Alana quips kindly. “Jack or Hannibal?”  
  
“Both,” Dr. Du Maurier confirms with a smile that doesn’t even try to reach her eyes – or go past her lips, for the matter. She doesn’t take her eyes off Will as she remarks, “They both seem to think you’re like no one else.”  
  
Will takes a sip of his coffee to wash away bitter with bitter. He licks over the edges of his teeth as he mutters, “That they mean it in different ways goes without saying.”  
  
“And now it’s been said,” Bedelia observes evenly. Her hum strikes Will as a criticism. “Dr. Crawford thought you might be of particular interest for my course this semester.”  
  
His jaw clenches and he grinds his teeth. “Should I ask what the course is or is this another thing that goes best without saying?”  
  
“Dr. Du Maurier is teaching the _Psychology of Human Emotion_ coarse,” Alana informs him to quickly ease any possible stalemate.  
  
“Of course,” Will says with a huff. He looks away from Dr. Du Maurier’s critical, taunting eyes and asks Alana instead, “Molly is one of the many, then?”  
  
“Yes, Will!” Alana says with a laugh. She touches his shoulder in a warmhearted, teasing sort of way. “You haven’t seen her? At this point, she’s hard to miss! Little Wally seems ready to be born any day now.”  
  
“That’s nice,” Will remarks. His tone is bland by choice. “How long until she’s back?”  
  
“Not for a long while, I would think,” Alana muses. “If I were her, I’d want to stay at home as long as I could. She seems in love with Wally already. I can’t imagine she’d want to leave him.”  
  
Tears spring dangerously near the corner of his eyes without warning. He tries not to think about _why_ in case those tears might then be convinced to spill. “She might need the work just to keep sane,” he says.  
  
He braces himself as soon as Dr. Du Maurier hums again and leans in just a little bit closer to him. “Have you never considered having children, Dr. Graham?” she asks. Her tone is soft but it cuts like the sharpest of any of Hannibal’s knives or the blade Will still keeps nearby. He's rubbed along the handle so many times that it might start wearing away until he's left only with the sharp end.   
  
“I know better than to breed,” Will says with a heavy swallow. He hopes his tears will be forced down with his spit. “What makes me singular might be _professionally interesting_ but no one wants to see more of it made.”  
  
“Hannibal might,” Alana says. Her smile is soft and careful but the grip on his arm is tighter.  
  
Will rolls his eyes. Leave it to Alana to still find a way to play matchmaker. “Seems too soon for that kind of talk,” he says as he ignores the sinking of his stomach.   
  
“Life is unpredictable,” Dr. Du Maurier suggests.  
  
After Alana has facilitated a new connection and that spot on Will’s mental checklist has been marked, she and Dr. Du Maurier both leave him to the quiet, solitude of his office. He grades papers and makes plans for his lectures with only a few mouthfuls of coffee that’s gone cold to keep him going. Last time he had until the morning to be surprised by a visit from Hannibal and one of his incredible meals. This time he only needs to wait as long as it takes to finish his work and drive home. He knows once he gets there he will take care of his dogs as he always has and take care of himself if he has enough care left over. These are the parts of the checklist that he thinks he knows best.   
  
The drive is long and the fatigue creeps in again to tug at his eyelids and sink into the back of his neck. As he tries to roll the ache away, he’s grateful that Hannibal will make sure dinner isn’t something Will needs to concern himself with. Hannibal will stretch the supplies and equipment available to him in Will's more humble home and create something just as impeccable as ever as he somehow always manages to do. The tiredness, the fatigue, the taste of iron and blood that will only go away for so long, Hannibal minimizes it all as much as he can and seems to have no less care or energy as a result. Will doesn’t know how he does it; he’s just grateful.  
  
When he pulls the car into the driveway, it’s still light out but just barely. It’s the last of the summer light before autumn has fully set in. With the lights on, his little house still manages to stand out against the setting sun. When he cuts his headlights off on his car, his house glows even brighter. Though he hasn’t gone nearly so far out into the field or the woods in a long while, his house still manages to feel like his boat on the lake.  
  
Will might be able to see his partner moving comfortably behind a curtain. He’s certain he can hear the dogs bark, no doubt hearing the sound of his car driving up and clamoring for the chance to stampede him. He can imagine Hannibal weaving between their many legs as they pace and jump. The dogs bark louder and with more enthusiasm after the slam of his car door closing. The front door on his little house swings open and Hannibal is there bathed in light as the pack of dogs charges past him. Hannibal's suit jacket, tie, and vest have been stripped away in favor of his chef’s coat. It’s clean and sleek and frames his body so well as he reaches up a hand to wave. The picture seems so picturesque that Will thinks he could call out _“Honey, I’m home!”_  
  
As Hannibal disappears back into the house, some of the dogs linger to mill at his feet and some sniff at their favorite patches of grass. When Buster jumps up against Will’s knee, he indulgently scoops him in his arms. Will looks back out into the woods, though he doesn't know exactly why as soon as he has. He sees nothing. Buster squirms in his arms and despite the fading summer warmth, Will shivers with the memory of feeling frozen. The sinking feeling in Will stomach isn’t a kick, but as he drops Buster to his feet, he rests his hand against his middle and he has a visceral, gut feeling. The metallic in his mouth makes him feel sick.  
  
The crash of the front door is too loud as he slams it, but he barely hears it. His footsteps are too heavy as he heads straight for the bathroom. Even in all the clamor, he can still hear Hannibal call out: _“Will?”_ His smooth tone and deep voice manages to slip in through the doorjamb as Will closes himself away.  
  
Will’s heart races and his vision swims. He swallows his sickness over and over as he hunches over the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His hand trembles as he slides it underneath the end of his shirt and he grits his teeth and braces himself as if anticipating that the touch of his hand to his skin might sting, burn, and scald. His gasp comes from his heart being wrenched in his chest as his fingertips drag along the rise between his waistband and belly button. He’d forgotten to mark the spots on the checklist for _growing belly_ and _tight clothes_. He’d been too busy again thinking of the care, comfort, and indulgence of good food.  
  
“Will?” Hannibal says as he taps carefully at the closed door. His voice is loud enough to travel through the wood but soft enough to not add to the chaos in Will’s head.  
  
Will doesn’t answer but Hannibal lets himself in anyway. Will can’t find it himself to be mad about it when he’s so busy feeling _panic_ and _dread_. Will sighs as Hannibal immediately cups his face in his hands, first brushing his fingers over Will’s burning cheeks and then across his clammy forehead. He brushes Will’s hair back and away and places a kiss to his forehead. It’s so delicate while Will pants wet, panicked breaths. He grasps at Hannibal’s back with an anxious hand and twists his shirt between clumsy fingers. As he roughly crushes himself against Hannibal’s chest, his hand presses flatter between their bodies and spreads across the swell of his belly that feels more prominent and more _there_ by the second.  
  
“Will,” Hannibal says firmly, but not unkindly. Hannibal hugs him to his body with a hand at the back of Will’s head. “Tell me what happened.”  
  
“I—” he starts, but the only thing he can think is: _Again. Not again_. He digs his fingers into the skin above his belt buckle and gasps for breath. “I think I might be pregnant,” he says and the words feel like too much, too real, too serious, too normal. It feels like a clumsy, inadequate way to describe everything it means.  
  
Hannibal hums right near Will’s ear, almost like the purr of a cat. “What makes you think that?”  
  
“There have been signs,” Will declares and he cringes at how frantic he sounds. His voice is as all over the place as he feels. “I just noticed.”  
  
Hannibal leans back and Will assumes it’s to look at him, but Will's closed his eyes already. Hannibal’s hand slides from the back of his head to the nape of his neck as he asks, “Do you have something to test with?”  
  
“No,” Will says and it feels _silly_.   
  
Hannibal starts to offer, “I could head to the store—”  
  
“No,” Will interrupts as panic and dread for a moment feel secondary to the _fear_ that Hannibal could disappear into the night and never return. He imagines someone might wish something like this was a terrible dream to wake up from. The fear that grips at Will’s heart leaves him feeling unsure what would be worse: to wake up just when he might just be getting his footing or be pregnant and have the impossible feeling of _again_ hanging menacingly over his heart and his head.  
  
Hannibal kisses once more at his forehead and then his cheek. “Perhaps it can wait for later,” Hanniibal soothes. “Do you think you’re ready to go sit down?”  
  
Will’s nod is shaky. It rattles him and nearly makes his teeth chatter together. Hannibal guides him back out of the bathroom to settle him on the bed. Will curls in with his knees to his chest. He waits with no small amount of anxiety prickling at his skin as Hannibal leaves to fetch a blanket and Will sighs as his partner returns to wrap it around him. The dogs lie in their beds on the floor with the exception of Winston, who sits up to stare at him curiously, and Buster, who still won’t seem to leave Hannibal alone. Will manages to click his tongue and get Buster to give it a rest for a while and Winston stands up to come closer and sit right by the edge of Will’s bed instead to stare at him from up close.  
  
Hannibal sits down next to Will and Will can tell he intends to keep himself close, but not too close but, as a result, he’s way too far away. Will pulls a trembling hand out from under the blanket and captures Hannibal’s arm back in his grip.   
  
“ _Please_ ,” Will pleads as he starts to pull his partner closer.  
  
Hannibal makes agreeing seem so easy that Will hardly feels like he even had to ask. As Hannibal curls along his side, he tucks Will’s arm back under the blanket and pulls the fabric tighter around him again.   
  
Will leans his head on Hannibal’s shoulder – at the temple, not the cheek to keep his tears from dotting the crisp white of Hannibal’s shirt. “This can’t be happening,” he whispers.   
  
“We weren’t careful,” Hannibal observes as he leans his cheek against Will’s hair. For him, maybe it can be that simple, though Wilil still finds that hard to fathom. “Seems we were tempting fate.”  
  
“How can you still be so calm?” Will questions. “So _rational_.”  
  
“It was a possibility I was aware of,” Hannibal answers easily. “I was under the impression that you were aware of the potential costs and benefits as well.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Will answers and then he winces. Could it truly be possible for everything to be so easy to explain? His sex ed in school had been seriously lacking, but he can’t say it failed to teach him even the basic fundamentals. He’s not sixteen anymore. He can’t blame youthful carelessness. He doesn’t want to think about what to blame. “Or, I was but I guess I didn’t think about it.”  
  
“Sometimes we might find our subconscious seeking what our conscious hardly recognizes,” Hannibal suggests and his tone at least sounds the slightest bit of uncertain _then_.   
  
“You think I subconsciously wanted this?” Will questions and his arms curl in tight around his middle. He wants to be insulted at the implication but finds he can’t be. A few more tears fall down his cheeks and clog the back of his throat as even under the panic and fear and dread and uncertainty he already feels a little less _empty_.  
  
“Did you?” Hannibal encourages.  
  
“I couldn’t,” he lies, though there is more honesty when he adds, “I’m not ready.”  
  
“Whatever happens next is up to you,” Hannibal reassures. “No matter what happens, you will be okay. I promise you that.”  
  
Will unwinds his arms from around his belly and peels back the blanket to lay it across Hannibal so that they might curl in together within its confines. He guides Hannibal’s hand against his belly. At the curious, affectionate touch of Hannibal's hand, Will pulls away to curl his fingers back into his partner's shirt and he feels grateful for its sturdiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems like the content I post on this account has some common themes including:  
> 1\. Birth  
> 2\. Back-to-back pregnancies (or implications of this) 
> 
> I know what I like, I guess. If you want to read another of my strange fics with these two things (and more) I'll link it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791512/chapters/68036683)
> 
> Also, I actually managed to post 50k this month?!?! I'm genuinely surprised. Thank you to everyone who commented! It definitely helped to keep me motivated.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is talk of needles towards the end of the chapter, so if that's a concern for you be aware of that.

Will breathes in until his chest feels full to burst and breathes out until he feels suffocated. It’s not how he’s supposed to breathe – not if he wants to slow the pounding of his heart – but he doesn’t do it to feel calmer. Feeling it is the point. He breathes in until his lungs feel pressed against his ribcage and drags his hands along his belly to feel the curve and the size so that he can know it as it is with his eyes closed. He breathes out until his chest seems to shrink inwards and his belly bulges farther out so can know where it will go.  
  
When the nurse calls his name, he stands and follows her down the hall, watching as other nurses and doctors huddle around a desk or pass him by. They all seem to be perfectly comfortable and perfectly in their element; meanwhile, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him until he notices what he’s doing and then he shoves his hands in his pockets. As the nurse guides him to a room, he ducks his head. The paper on the table crinkles as he takes his seat. He holds his arm out dutifully as she picks up the blood pressure cuff and wraps it around.   
  
“How have you been feeling?” she asks as she pumps the cuff tighter and presses her fingers to his pulse.  
  
“Uh,” he says and hesitates as the squeeze around his arm reminds him again of the throb of his heart. This time his deep breath _is_ actually an attempt at calming it. “Fine.”  
  
“Any nausea?” she asks as she pumps it another few pumps tighter and then starts to release the pressure.  
  
“No,” Will answers, listening to the air rushing out as the cuff loosens its hold. He licks his lips anxiously and runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “That’s not really been a problem. The taste of blood has been something to get used to though.”  
  
“It’s such a shock to see the red in the sink, isn’t it?” the nurse says with a laugh. The Velcro of the cuff is loud as she pulls it apart. “I remember being so worried when it happened with my first. Every night I had nightmares about my teeth falling out.”  
  
Will’s chuckle is awkward and stilted. He wishes his nightmares were as simple and common as teeth falling out. He’d be grateful for a dream about forgetting his homework or even falling with the only hope being that he wakes before he hits the ground. Such a simple fear would be easier to make sense of and dismiss. Instead, there are nights when he wakes up in a sweat and, in the moment before his higher thought processes can kick in to chastise him for it, he might wish for _his_ dream again – the one with the monster in the woods.  
  
“Is it your first?” the nurse asks him as she guides him to lay back with a gentle touch to his shoulder.   
  
He curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt and pulls it up to bunch at his chest. He looks down at his belly with eyes that have seen it many times before. “No,” he says. “Not my first.”  
  
The nurse smiles at him as she picks up her tape measure and places the end at the base of his sternum. “No two pregnancies are exactly the same, are they?”  
  
“I guess not,” he says as he watches the tape measure extend across the curve of his belly.   
  
The nurse checks a few more things and records all her findings in the computer and all the while he touches at the swell of his belly with a curious, probing touch. This little one feels so much like the last one. Every day he takes a pause to notice what he’s feeling and what has changed and every day it still feels _familiar._ As days turn into weeks and then two months passed, the only difference Will has managed to find is that this baby seems much more content to keep quiet. He hasn’t even felt a flutter yet.   
  
“I have everything I need,” she tells him with a final click of the computer. She still smiles at him as she stands and crosses the room. “The doctor will be in soon.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says as he pulls his shirt down to cover himself up again. He realizes after the fact that there isn’t a point. It’s just a habit.  
  
He closes his eyes as the nurse closes the door and tips his head back against the stiff chair. Although the baby feels achingly familiar in his belly, he can’t underestimate or undervalue the difference it has made to not have to keep its mere existence from Hannibal. He doesn’t need to divert hands as they roam or be afraid to shed too many layers. Hannibal has watched as he grew and, as Will’s partner promised, disaster has not struck – though Will can’t help feeling it’s just a matter of time.  
  
There’s no knock before Will hears the sound of the doorknob turning. Dr. Sutcliffe enters first, holding the door open for Hannibal. Will watches the doctor as he watches Hannibal with an enamored sort of admiration. In Will’s previous appointment, Dr. Sutcliffe made a point to tell Will all about how well he’d once known Hannibal. All Hannibal had said beforehand was that they’d known each other when they were younger.  
  
Hannibal and Dr. Sutcliffe talk as they enter and don’t pause their conversation for Will’s sake. Will noticed last time that Dr. Sutcliffe’s attention tends to focus on Hannibal rather than his actual patient and it seems that might not be a one-off, but Will doesn’t mind. He could do something about it – complain or maybe find another doctor – but the alternative might be being cared about _too much_ and he isn’t sure he likes the idea of that either. He’s already been too much of a source of curiosity in his lifetime.  
  
“You know my passion for teaching,” Hannibal says. “I’ve found how the mind works much more dynamic than how the brain works."  
  
Dr. Sutcliffe smirks as he insists, “I still think being a doctor would have suited you better.”  
  
“Maybe in the next life,” Hannibal replies.  
  
They continue to chat as Dr. Sutcliffe checks over what the nurse typed into the computer. Hannibal at least gives Will a quick hello with a kiss to his temple and dutifully takes his hand. He stands broad and tall at Will’s side and makes the crisp, clean bright white of the exam room seem drab. Hannibal smiles down at him, proud and pleased as Will pulls his shirt up again.  
  
Will gets the sense that Dr. Sutcliffe wouldn’t usually do the actual ultrasound. It’s the sense that also tells him that he only does Will’s for good favor with Hannibal and for the sake of continuing their conversation from before. The screen is mostly a blur of black and white to his eyes, but every so often Dr. Sutcliffe pauses either to recall the next bit of whatever piece of nostalgia he’s unearthing in his chat with Hannibal or to actually make note of what’s on the screen. During that pause, the little shapes take form and sit there so plainly and openly for Will to see.  
  
He squeezes Hannibal’s hand to keep from reaching down to press for himself from the outside. Last time, he’d felt at his skin and imagined what the little thing might look like underneath and, after all the pain and strain, he saw only for a moment what had been there all along. Now he can see in ways he never could before and he _still_ struggles to connect what he’s seeing with what’s growing inside of him.  
  
“Okay, looks good,” Sutcliffe says with a last click and the screen goes dark. Will still stares at the blank screen as Sutcliffe swivels on his stool and asks Hannibal, “Anything else?”  
  
Hannibal releases Will’s hand and instead extends his hand palm-up to hover over Will’s belly. There is a pause in silence before the doctor understands the quiet command and moves to place some paper towels in Hannibal’s outstretched hand. Hannibal drags them across the rise of Will’s belly to clean it as he asks, “Will?”  
  
“The baby doesn’t move much,” Will observes. Last time the little thing refused to be left alone. This time it seems so docile. He doesn’t know if that’s something he should wish for. “I hardly ever feel them. I feel like they should be moving more.”  
  
“It might be too soon for you to start counting kicks,” Dr. Sutcliffe says with a laugh. “That usually comes much later.”  
  
“How much later?” Will asks. He hadn’t kept track of timelines last time – hadn’t felt like he had the chance to. When he tries to remember, he doesn’t recall the movements ever being hesitant or slight. They weren’t there and then suddenly they were. They were insistent and persistent until suddenly they were gone again.  
  
“It will be another month or two,” the doctor instructs him.  
  
“It feels like the baby’s growing a lot,” Will says, because even with a lack of movement, there hasn’t been a lack of _growth_.  
  
“Some show more than others,” Dr. Sutcliffe says to Will but looks at Hannibal. “Depends on a variety of factors.”  
  
“Will you look at their feet?” Will asks, thinking of the blurs on the screen and the little creature that had been born in his bed with its little bird-like feet.  
  
“Why?” Dr. Sutcliffe asks. His smile has an incredulous tilt to it. “You want to count their toes?”  
  
Will licks his lips but his mouth still feels dry and his throat feels hollow as he swallows. “Yes.”  
  
Hannibal pets the back of his fingers across Will’s cheek. “There’s no need to be so worried, dear Will.”  
  
“I just—” Will starts. He tries to think of an honest explanation to give that doesn’t give too much. “I want to make sure everything is okay.”  
  
“Everything is as it should be,” Hannibal reassures. “Right, Donald?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Dr. Sutcliffe agrees dutifully. “Like I said, everything looks good.”  
  
Will looks back at Hannibal and bites his tongue. He reminds himself that he doesn’t want to start trouble. He wouldn’t know what to do anyway if they looked and found something amiss. There are differences between human intricacies and inhuman ones. That was why he avoided the doctor before, after all.   
  
Dr. Sutcliffe prints out pictures for them before they leave and Will studies them on the car ride back to Hannibal’s home. He thinks he might see the outline of feet, but the shape is vague. They might be normal with toes curled in or still needing time to grow. It’s hard for him to trust his eyes when his heart hopes for one thing and his mind worries about another. While Hannibal starts his preparations for dinner, Will keeps staring at the photo as if it might reveal a new conclusion if he just waits long enough.  
  
“Have you ever been a father?” Will asks as Hannibal dices carrot, onion, and celery.  
  
“Yes,” Hannibal says, not pausing as each piece comes out in the perfect, identical little shape. “My child doesn’t live here but I see him often.”  
  
Will sets aside the photo for the moment. He’d asked the question but he’s still surprised and intrigued by the answer. “What’s he like?”  
  
“He is clever and curious,” Hannibal says. His lips twitch with a smile as he finishes with the vegetables and moves on to preparing the meat. “With more than his share of youthful recklessness.”  
  
Will looks around the kitchen and sees the block of sharp knives and the many odd things readily available to little hands. He’s never spotted anything like a _sippy cup_ in the many cabinets he’s seen Hannibal open and close. That Hannibal has nothing of his child in his home should maybe make Will suspicious of his dedication to fatherhood. Maybe it would if Will didn’t feel as though he’d be damning himself in the same breath. From the outside, there’s nothing to suggest that Will has ever had a child, but he feels it inside, scored against his muscles and carved into his bones.  
  
“You love him,” Will says. Whether or not there are sippy cups in the cabinets or a room of toys somewhere Will hasn’t seen, Will can clearly see the love in the shine of Hannibal’s eyes as he speaks.  
  
“Of course I do,” Hannibal answers as he turns on the heat of a burner. “I would like to have him here with me and for us to be closer as a family. Maybe someday.”  
  
These past months since his discovery, Will has been trying to imagine a child in his own home. He hasn’t put as much imagination into what Hannibal would look like caring for a child. The thing that might be easiest and nicest to imagine hasn’t been what’s captured his imagination. That always seems to be how it goes.  
  
“Will I meet him?”  
  
Hannibal looks up from where the meat sizzles at the base of a great big pot. “Do you want to?”  
  
“Yes,” he answers. Will envisions a little boy with hair cut short and eyes that are an observer to everything. He smiles when he imagines how those little eyes see Hannibal – someone strong and safe and so unbelievably _interesting_.  
  
His partner smiles too as he agrees, “Then you will.”  
  
“When?” he says, finding himself feeling attached to the idea already.  
  
“When everyone is ready,” Hannibal answers and he picks up his wine to sip. “It’s important to be certain where children are concerned.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Will says with a sigh. His hand finds its place against his belly. He touches his fingers along the underside and the curve fits against his palm.  
  
“Have you considered your options further?” Hannibal asks. After the panic that came with a series of little plastic tests each with two lines on them, there was then the panic about what would come after. Hannibal had made it clear that the choices were still Will’s to make and they all remained available to him.  
  
“I don’t know,” Will says. He _wants_ to keep the baby so badly. The emptiness in his house could get filled and the shadows would have less space to take advantage of. The silence already feels less crushing knowing it might not last. His arms feel less empty as he carries the baby with him always. But dread comes to smother that sliver of contentment. He knows the shadows will always seem darker when he thinks of his last birth and the little creature that disappeared into the night. “I want to keep it, but I don’t know if I _can_ ,” he admits.  
  
Hannibal hums as he adds broth and a little bouquet of herbs to the pot and covers it. “What makes you think you can’t?”  
  
“It is difficult for me to imagine having a baby and raising them and everything being okay.”  
  
Hannibal crosses around the counter and brushes his thumb against Will’s cheek, almost touching where Will knows the bags sit under his eyes. “Your worry has been weighing on you.”  
  
“This baby business seems to have a lot of unknowns, I guess,” Will says with a sigh as he tips his cheek into Hannibal’s hand. “Feels like everything is happening too fast and too slow at once.”  
  
Lips press against Will’s forehead in a kiss that lingers. “I know Sutcliffe isn’t winning awards in bedside manner,” Hannibal says when he pulls back to study Will with his eyes. “Katherine has a much gentler touch.”  
  
“Oh,” he says, remembering the woman from the party and how unsettling it had been when she’d declared him _tense_. If that was a gentler touch, it gives more leeway to the assertion that he might not like _that_ either. “I don’t know.”  
  
“It can be my treat,” Hannibal offers. “If you need an excuse, you can bring me back some honey and I’ll make us something nice.”  
  
Will smiles. Dinner already smells heavenly and the honeyed leg of lamb had been the clear winner at the party. He has fond memories of the sweetness on his tongue. “Alright,” he agrees and he leans in to seal their pact with a kiss.  
  
When Will parks his car outside Katherine’s office later that week, he thinks he let Hannibal convince him too easily. He’s tired, he has a headache and heartburn, and even if Katherine can ease some of these complaints, he doesn’t think what’s really bothering him can be solved with a bit of acupuncture.  
  
The problem is that he doesn’t know anything that _could_ do it. As much as Will has devoted his professional life to psychology, he’s worried the answer he might find there could be something that only makes him feel _crazy_ and doesn’t make him feel _better_. While sometimes he might actually feel crazy, other times there’s something in him that says he’s remarkably _sane_ all things considered.   
  
He knocks on the door to Katherine’s office and waits because he told Hannibal he would and he doesn’t think it would hurt him to let Katherine try to ease things even if it’s only treating the symptoms and not the cause.   
  
Katherine opens the door with another wide smile plastered across her face. She blinks at him and there is some sort of recognition in her eyes as she greets, “Good afternoon, Will.”  
  
“Good afternoon,” he replies with a tilt of his own smile.  
  
“You’re right on time,” she tells him as she opens the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”  
  
“Thank you,” he says and he follows her into the entryway.  
  
“Hannibal told me it’s just the acupuncture for today?”  
  
“He asked me to pick up some honey,” Will says as he takes off the light coat he wears. It’s getting too cold for it, but he always feels like he’s burning up anyway. “He wondered if you had any early lavender honey.”  
  
“Yes, I do,” she replies with a shaky nod that shifts her wispy hair around her face. “Leftover from what I made in the spring and still good as new. I’ll give you some buckwheat honey too, just to give him something else to play with.”  
  
Will laughs and licks at his lips. “I’m sure he’ll think of something special to do with it.”  
  
Katherine shows him to another room, lined with many plants in many little pots and decorated in the browns of wood and dirt. There’s a cushioned table in the middle between a couch and a chair and he hovers there not sure where to be.  
  
“I think we’ll have you lay on your back,” she says.  
  
“I guess we’ll have to,” he agrees. He rubs against his belly, even the looser cut of his shirt clings to the farthest curve. The touch of his hand only makes the obvious more so.  
  
“You’ll need to take off your clothes,” she tells him. “I can leave you with a towel to cover up.”  
  
Will’s smile is tight, almost a wince. “I’d appreciate that.”  
  
She puts a folded white towel on the end of the table and pats it a few times before she leaves. A short little while after she’s walked away, he can hear gears turning and the sound of spinning. He strips away his clothes and leaves them in a heap on the chair before lifting himself to the table. He’s a little clumsier with the lack of familiarity and habit but there’s no harsh crinkle of paper underneath him. He knows she must be listening to him as much as he is listening to her. When he settles onto the table and arranges the little towel and then makes no more sound, she reenters.  
  
She stands at his side and reaches for his wrist to take his pulse and asks to see his tongue. There is a pause before she hums. “You’re tense again,” she says and he might see pity in the softness of her eyes. “A lot of thoughts buzzing in there.”  
  
He clenches his jaw as he closes his mouth and he flexes his fingers when she releases his wrist. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Are you worried about the little one?” she asks as she turns back towards the tray by her elbow.   
  
He considers her question and, though it might seem like there is an easy answer, he has a hard time finding one. “I’m not sure.”  
  
“I’m going to start with some ear needles first to help calm your nerves.”  
  
He nods. “Okay.”  
  
Her fingers are light and careful as she touches his ear and when she reaches behind her for a needle, he braces himself for the prick of it.  
  
“Do you feel that?” she asks as she pushes the needle in.  
  
He winces with the dull bite of it. “A little.”  
  
Katherine tsks her tongue and reaches for another needle. “Just a few more and then we’ll switch to the other side.”  
  
Now that he knows what to expect, the second needle already hurts less than the first. “Okay.”  
  
She places the rest of the needles on that ear and their matches on the other ear. “Do you feel that?” she asks as she inserts the next one at the top of his head.  
  
“No,” he says.  
  
Her tone is soft and her voice light as she says, “Good.”  
  
When the next needle goes between his eyebrows, he doesn’t even flinch. He finds himself sinking and relaxing more easily than he expected. She moves downward along his arms and chest. Each time she asks if he can feel it and whispers _good_ when he feels only the slightest sting at worst.  
  
“Everyone says ‘the birds and the bees,’” she muses aloud. She hums as she places another needle. “But does anyone know what the bird and the bees do?”  
  
He blinks his eyes a few times and says, “I don’t.”  
  
“On a warm, sunny day, a queen bee flies out to a congregation area and she mates. Once she’s fully mated, she stores all that sperm and releases it for up to _seven years_ ,” she explains with a breezy chuckle. She touches along the turn of his knee and along his shin. “Mated on one splendid occasion, bred for life. Do you feel that?”  
  
“No,” he answers. He hadn’t even known she’d administered another needle.  
  
“Good,” she praises again and moves on to whatever is next. “Birds? Well, they have what’s called _brood parasitism_. A bird might slip its egg in another’s nest and leave it there with the assurance that the little parasite will be kept somewhere warm and well-cared-for until it’s ready to abandon the nest and fly away on its own.”  
  
Will hums. His fingers twitch with the want to move but he’s not sure how shifting might disturb the placement of the needles so does his best to keep still. He remembers the little parasite that made a home in his womb and its abandonment when it was done with him. It was a relic from one dream that has plagued him for many nights since even when he wasn’t asleep – perhaps _especially_ when he wasn’t asleep. With the calm that has settled over him, remembering it feels nothing like a nightmare.  
  
“Do you feel that?” she asks again.  
  
“No,” he answers, though he thinks the needle might have gone into the top of his foot that time or maybe between his toes.  
  
“Good,” she says. “Those are our birds and our bees. Just as nature intended.”  
  
“That’s–“ he starts and tries to find a word that seems to fit. When he isn’t sure there is one, he says: “Interesting.”  
  
“Isn’t it? Nature has found many creative ways to be,” Katherine suggests as she turns away. “We must find what works well for each of us as creatures of creation and let all else fade away.”  
  
When she turns back, she does not have a needle in her hand; instead, there is the crinkle of an aluminum camping blanket. As she drapes it over him, he worries it might shift the needles, but it’s lightweight and settles gently.  
  
“I’m going to leave you to rest for a while,” she tells him. “Just lay back and let your thoughts go quiet.”  
  
He closes his eyes as she flicks off the light and turns on bland, clinking music. The spinning sound can barely be heard again in the background and he falls asleep easier than he has in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! I got obsessed with my HEU/rare meats fic for a while, but I wanted to make sure to come back and give this one an update too! I'd started to miss it :)


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn’t know why he goes into the woods.  
  
The sun was going down when he got home. He let the dogs out, waited a little while, and then ushered them back in. Hannibal wouldn’t be home for a while. He was spending time with his son and had a dinner to be at. Hannibal has talked about his son a little more since Will introduced the child into their conversations. It seemed Will accidentally opened a door he hadn’t known was shut. As the leaves crunch under his feet, he wonders what other doors there are to open and how he might find a latch if it’s hidden.  
  
His toe catches on a scraggly, knotted root protruding from the ground and he stumbles to brace himself against the trunk of its tree. He hisses as the bark scrapes against his palm and his knee hits the ground. He regains his balance as he kneels and settles. When he inspects his palm, he frowns at having been scratched deep enough to draw specks of blood.   
  
There is rustling in the leaves near his feet that isn’t him but when he looks over, he finds nothing there. He pushes himself back to his feet and looks all around but he’s still all alone. He continues to hear that rustling – sometimes trailing behind him, sometimes hidden behind a tree up ahead – but whatever it is stays out of sight and never makes itself known.   
  
As it gets darker and darker, he is coming very close to having traveled deeper into the woods than he’s ever been before. As it gets harder and harder to see, he still isn’t sure why he hasn’t turned around. He puts one foot in front of the other and does his best not to fall again. His hand holds at the underside of the curve of his growing belly to account for how its weight shifts his sense of balance and gravity. By the time the sun has fully sunken and as the moon is rising higher and higher in the sky, Will still doesn’t know any better why he’s gone into the woods than he did when he took his first step. All he knows he is already pregnant and can think of nothing else to be afraid of.  
  
There’s another rustle in the leaves on the ground as wind passes through the trees. The leaves that have yet to fall sound like rain as they shake. Will’s eyes struggle to adapt to the dark, leaving everything as shades of dark black, deep blue, and shadowy gray. Only the bright light of the moon and the stars stands out this deep in the forest. His knife is in the pocket of his jacket and he tucks one hand in to feel along the cold metal at the blunt side. It’s folded closed for now, little more than a worry stone, but it’s a comfort to know he could flip it open if the need were to arise.  
  
Though Will can’t say he consciously knows the reason, his heart pounds harder and louder in his chest. He feels something like adrenaline and anticipation prickling at his skin as it flushes and burns. His eyes blink against the dark as he feels suddenly as acutely aware of himself as he is of everything around him. It’s how he manages to notice when the moon wanes behind a thickened shadow.  
  
He turns to find the creature there, looming silently in the dark. With the moon behind it, the face is still almost impossible to see, but Will remembers the silhouette as clear as if he’d seen it in daytime. The antlers, the wings, the hindlegs, and hooves have all become familiar to him. Stripped of some of the strangeness and shock, Will finds himself stepping closer.  
  
He knows now why he came into the woods.  
  
He drops his knife from his hand and it falls deeper into his pocket as he brings his hands into view and opens them wide. He shows the creature his empty palms and when it makes no move towards him, he takes a step forward. He keeps his hands open and placating as he takes one step after another until he’s _almost_ close enough to reach out and touch. He can’t see the deep depths of the creature’s eyes but he feels their gaze and knows how it snaps down to the dots of blood drying and staining the heel of his palm from where it was scraped.  
  
The creature reaches up slowly to make another etching cut across its own midnight-black arm. It mimics Will’s open palms as a nail dripping with blood raises towards him. He opens his mouth subconsciously – _instinctually_ – and readies his tongue for the sharp point of the nail that could pierce and skewer him. Instead, it presses so lightly against his tongue that it barely pricks him. He tastes a sweeter metallic than the one that’s been souring his mouth for months. His eyes slide closed as he feels inexplicably calmed and soothed once more. He shivers with the pleasure it brings him to feel the tension bleed from his muscles and dissolve his bones.   
  
His hand grabs for the creature’s arm as his legs start to give out from under him. Big, wide hands catch him just around the back of his ribs and, although he knows the nails could cut through to his skin, they only cause cold air to drift in through little tears in fabric. He notices an echo of gratitude underneath the haze and blur of his senses. But even as he is grateful that his clothes were shredded and not his skin, he intends to make it home on his own and would prefer to not be naked for the long trek back.  
  
His hands shake, but there’s no longer any stinging ache in his palm. There is only the need to touch what has lingered in vague memories and distant thoughts for too long. He wants to _feel it_ and know for a moment at least that what he is feeling is _real_. His fingers are clumsy as he unbuttons his pants and he has to work his thumbs under a waistband that cuts into his hips with how tight it has become. The skin at his hips feels bruised and aching as he touches the rises and falls of skin molded underneath layers of unforgiving clothes.  
  
Once his pants are past his hips and ass, he pushes them down his thighs until they go past his knees and drop to the ground. He reaches his hand out into the dark to brace himself against a tree, thick and wide and tall. A shadow creeps up behind him and the pitch-black of night condenses everything in his vision into one all-encompassing abyss. He pants as he clings to the bark. It’s rough against his cheek as he presses against it and gasps. His inner thighs are slick as they rub together just to get a little friction against his sensitive clit.  
  
The hand that’s now missing any hint of a wound pulls back from bark and travels down to press between his legs where he’s soaked and feels so achingly _open_. It’s so easy to push in two fingers, but it gives him no relief. He whimpers in disappointment and desperation as he pulls his fingers out again. His hole desperately clenches around nothing and it’s all he can do to push back and hope something in the abyss catches him.  
  
It’s there against his back – solid and _there_ – and it does catch him and keep him far from falling. He feels himself held as surely as he feels himself being filled. The cock that pushes into him sits heavy and deep. The burn of the stretch has his finger nails scraping against the edges of bark as he moans against the bite of his lip between his teeth. The ridges of the creature’s cock rub as his hole burns hot and sensitive. He spreads his feet and as he breathes out, he opens himself wider to accept more with less pain.  
  
A powerful hand – the hand capable of destruction and pain – stretches itself across Will’s belly. Will gasps as the creature’s hand curls around the swell and long, slim fingers cuts slashes through the fabric. Chilly air ekes in through the cuts and goosebumps bloom against the tight skin stretched across his growing womb.  
  
Will’s thoughts quiet to a steady buzz. Emerging from that buzz is the thought of the queen bee in an open field during the summer. He hadn’t felt it with the prick of Katherine’s needles but it seems summoned from deep within his veins, welling up like beads of blood as the creature’s nails prick against the sensitive skin of his belly with the smallest bursts of pain. In the cold dark of the woods, he couldn’t be more different from a bee in a warm, open field. Even so, somewhere, somehow, Katherine’s words echo amongst the buzz of his thoughts and silence in the air: _Mated for a day, bred for life_.  
  
Will presses his much smaller hand against the creature’s much larger one. He doesn’t try to tug or budge the fingers because he knows he can’t and it would be riskier to try. “Be _careful_ ,” Will gasps into the great, open nighttime. “Don’t hurt the baby.”  
  
The creature doesn’t make a noise. It doesn’t so much as _breathe_ loudly in the dark. But they seem to understand each other. The pushes and pulls of the creature’s cock in his hole remain firm and deep and unforgiving, but they’re not as brutal as Will knows they could be. He’s not dangerously jostled with unrestrained strength that might threaten something tenuous and still gaining its strength.  
  
As the ridge at the very base of the creature’s cock starts to swell and threatens to lock them together once more, Will groans and pants wetly as pleasure makes his knees wobble. He whines as the stretch heightens the stinging burn, but the whine is not one of complaint. He sinks down deeper and harder unto the creature’s cock as his legs start to give out and it’s the last thing needed to pop the last ridge in and lock him together with the creature clinging to his back and cradling his belly.  
  
He can feel bits of bark under his nails, threatening to form splinters, but Will only holds on harder as his hole clenches and encourages each surge of the flood that fills him. Will feels every second of it and can do nothing else. He puts his every attention into each pound of his heart and flex of his hole and every spill of the creature inside him that doesn’t risk spilling at all. There’s no escaping it.  
  
He won’t let himself fall asleep.  
  
His clit _throbs_ and he grits his teeth as his nails seem too rough and sharp to touch himself. He shifts on his feet as they start to tingle with pins and needles and that last shift presses the hard swell inside him against a spot of pleasure. His toes curl as there’s no way to pull away from the sensations that overtake him. Desire, arousal, pleasure, satisfaction, _danger_ – they all converge into one burst of euphoria.  
  
He keeps himself awake even as he shivers and shakes with the pleasure that fills his veins and the cold that bites against his skin. There is a thawing the closer and closer it is to the heat that burns bright in his hole and in his belly. That keeps him warm and content enough until the creature can pull its cock away and absorb back into the night.  
  
Will pulls his pants back up on his hips and refastens them as he trudges his way back towards where he knows his house will shine out in the dark. He follows the vision of his little house like a boat on the water all the way back to his doorstep. The dogs are just as happy to see him as they had been before, as if ages and eons had passed while he was gone. He yawns as he watches them do another round of sniffing and peeing outside. He rubs his fingers against tired, groggy eyes but won’t let himself blink too long. He has to stay awake. He can’t go to sleep and wake up and still not _know_.   
  
His shoes _thunk_ against the floor as he toes them off. His jacket gets hung on the hook. His underwear is soaked through when it joins his pants in the hamper. He peels his shirt away but keeps it in his hands. He weaves his fingers in between the tears in the fabric as he finds himself pajamas. His fingers find the frayed edges again when he’s sitting on his bed in boxers with a waistband that’s a little too tight. It threatens to dig divots in the tender skin at his hips again but the hand that smooths over his belly thankfully finds no marks to be found there. As he looks at his hands, he can’t find the little mark that had been left behind Katherine’s needle or the scrape left behind by a tree.  
  
He has to stay awake.  
  
Even as he sits back against the bed, gets under the covers, and turns off the light, he lets his mind _whir_. The frenzy of thoughts that is usually so insufferable will keep him from sleeping. It has before; at least now it can be useful. While his thoughts plague his mind, there’s a place within his ribcage that throbs with a deep, instinct that Will doesn’t know how to name. His arm curves back around his belly as he decides to think instead about the baby that lies beneath his skin.  
  
When Will finds his eyes feeling too heavy, he keeps them open, staring into the darkness and waiting while his dogs taunt him with their snores from the floor. Just when he thinks he might not be able to keep them open any longer, Hannibal comes home.  
  
Hannibal’s quiet and courteous, as always. This isn’t the first time Will’s exhaustion has driven him to go to bed before Hannibal does and Hannibal has never woken him. Already awake, Will still hardly hears Hannibal’s footsteps. The sound of Hannibal taking his clothes off is just as slight, a whisper of fabric against skin. The bed hardly sinks as Hannibal crawls into it.  
  
“What time is it?” Will whispers.   
  
“Past midnight,” Hannibal answers as he curls around Will’s back. He slides his hands under Will’s, cradling low on his belly. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
Will stares up at the bright blue letters of his alarm clock on his nightstand: _12:19._ Will stares and stares at those numbers until he sees them even with his eyes closed. They are burned in vibrant neon on the back of his eyelids as he drifts asleep.  
  
He wakes up in the morning to the scratch of dogs’ nails against the wood as they pace and jump. Will feels that the bed is colder and emptier without Hannibal and as the front door opens and closes. Will looks back up at the clock: _6:39_.  
  
Will pushes back the covers and shifts up in bed to swing his legs over the edge. He stretches his back and groans as he still feels tired and sore. There’s still no scrape on his palm as he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes and across the curve of his belly. The dogs are let back in and the bed dips as Hannibal sits behind him.   
  
“You got home late last night,” Will says with a sigh as Hannibal’s hands rub at the aches in his shoulders. Thumbs dig in harsh and deep and Will gasps in relief. “After midnight. That’s a long night for dinner.”  
  
“Yes, it is,” Hannibal agrees and Will can hear the chuckle that rumbles underneath. “It turned out to be dinner and a show.”  
  
Will tips his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder and turns to kiss at his neck. “It always is when you’re involved.”  
  
That earns him another chuckle as hands shift from his shoulders to down around his belly. “I saw Katherine had the honey I asked for.”  
  
“Yeah,” Will says, having nearly forgotten that was supposed to be his excuse. He looks down and watches the strong hands, lined with veins that make them look even stronger, that hold with just the right amount of care. “Yeah, she did.”  
  
Hannibal’s hands stroke soft and sure as he promises, “I’ll spend the day thinking of recipes and finding the perfect one.”  
  
“Looking forward to it,” Will says, turning back to smile and nip his teeth against the spot on Hannibal’s neck that he’d kissed.  
  
“Did you like the dinner I left for you?”  
  
“Oh, uh,” Will stammers as he licks anxiously across lips that feel a little chapped. “I haven’t had it yet.” Will pauses to consider how he might explain himself and his teeth dig into his lip. “I ended up spending time with an old friend last night.”  
  
It feels odd to describe the creature in the woods as a friend, but no other option fit any better. _Someone I know_ was vague and practically _begging_ for Hannibal to ask more. _Former lover_ might be a good fit but it was also the most damning.  
  
“Sounds like fun was had all around,” Hannibal muses, a whisper tucked with a kiss against Will’s hair.  
  
Will tries to not let his sigh sound too much like relief. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess we did.”  
  
“I can pack it up for your lunch if you want,” Hannibal offers as he pulls his hands away and the rest of his body with them. The bed dips and shifts with him as he climbs away and towards the kitchen.  
  
Will lets himself gently fall back against the bed and stares up at the ceiling. “Actually, I think I’m going to stay home.”  
  
“Are you feeling okay?”  
  
Will can _just_ see Hannibal if he cranes his neck and, though the change is slight, he can see the way Hannibal’s eyebrows scrunch. “Fine. Just tired,” he reassures with a sigh. He looks back down and his eyes drag down his chest and over the growing mountain of his belly. He hasn’t grown enough for the mountain to have a peak, but he’s getting there. “My first class isn’t until this evening anyway. Grading can be done just as easily here.”  
  
Hannibal sinks back down on the bed and presses his fingers to Will’s forehead for good measure. When he finds that Will truly isn’t too warm, he brushes the backs of his fingers down against Will’s cheek. Will feels how he starts to flush under Hannibal’s care and attention. That care and attention has become more and more normal, but sometimes that only makes it more surreal.  
  
“If you feel better after your rest, I’d be overjoyed to have you come to my class this afternoon,” Hannibal suggests. “I’ve missed having you there and you should have always had your place front and center beside me.”  
  
Will props himself up on his elbows when there’s a pang in his chest that not even exhaustion can fully muffle. “I don’t have anything prepared for today?”  
  
“Don’t prepare,” Hannibal says. The furrow in his brow has smoothed out and a smile has arisen in its place. “I want to hear your thoughts as you have them.”  
  
Will pushes himself up further and groans as his back twinges. He manages to reach and press a kiss to Hannibal’s cheek. “Okay.”  
  
He eats the breakfast Hannibal provides for him and has another surreal moment as he stares down at his breakfast scramble. The vibrant colors in the meal swirl and blur together as his fork pauses halfway to his mouth. The gravity in having to sit up to eat has encouraged the spill that dampens his boxers. Will crawls back into bed as soon as he’s finished eating and Hannibal has left to fetch one of the suits he’s left in garment bags hung in the upstairs closet. The transformation between casual, pajama-wearing Hannibal to the proper, three-piece-suit-wearing Hannibal claims yet another portion of surreality.  
  
Hannibal kisses him on the forehead before he heads out the door and Will slides deeper under the covers before he can even hear the car pulling out of the driveway. He sneaks a hand under the covers and presses his fingers on the soaked fabric against his hole. He squeezes his thighs together. He both moans and winces when what the act makes him feel is _pleasure_. He presses his thumb harshly against his clit and his breath _hisses_ between his teeth. His whimper is just as loud as he forces himself to pull his hand away. Now, he tells himself, he should go to sleep.  
  
He does feel better in some way after he wakes up and even more so after he takes a shower too. He washes away the night before and wishes the guilt and shame could disappear down the drain too. When he gets dressed, he takes a moment to dig last night’s shirt out again from where he hid it. He pauses to feel once more at the fraying edges and the threads unravel a little more with each pass of his thumb. He hides the shirt back in the back of a drawer in case he finds he needs it later.  
  
He gets ready with plenty of time to visit Hannibal’s class. As he walks towards the lecture hall, he feels the kind of anticipatory nerves he associates with his first time in front of a class. He chuckles wryly at himself as he pushes open the door. He’s had a lot more experience since then, but somehow even after teaching under the scrutiny of students who all but decided that they disliked him, he didn’t feel nerves quite like this. Even when he started to _labor_ in front of their very eyes, he might have been in too much shock to be anxious.  
  
He tries to keep his head held high as he descends the stairs towards the podium where Hannibal stands. His heart thuds in his chest with every drop of his foot to the next step; it skips a beat and restarts when Hannibal looks up and his lips twitch towards a smile. Will’s smile in response is both immediate and hesitant too.  
  
When he comes to stand next to Hannibal, he hesitates not knowing how a person is supposed to act with their partner in front of this kind of crowd. He’s never had a reason to know this before. Hannibal saves him from further wondering as he lifts a hand to curl and squeeze firmly and affectionately just above Will’s elbow.  
  
“Hello, my dear,” Hannibal says. His eyes flit across Will’s face in careful study. “Are you feeling better rested?”  
  
Will feels the start of a flush at how he can feel the way Hannibal wishes he could test Will’s temperature with the touch of his hands or his lips. “I think so.”  
  
“Would you be more comfortable in a seat or would you prefer to stand?”  
  
“Oh, uh,” Will says and hesitates. He hasn’t _hidden_ the swell of his belly so much this time, but he also hasn’t called attention to it. He’s aware of the keen eyes on him – within his department in particular – but hasn’t felt the want or the need to say the words yet. He tries not to consider what his class thinks of him. He keeps his hand from instinctually pressing against the curve of his belly, but only _just barely_ catching himself at the last second. “I guess I’ll sit.”  
  
Hannibal nods and steps away to position a chair for him. It’s just off to the side enough to not get caught in the projection of Hannibal’s slideshow, but still close enough to front and center. As Will sits, he’s particularly conscious of not slumping into it as he might usually do. He puts his bag in his lap and tries to not clutch to that too tightly either.   
  
As Hannibal returns to his podium and looks up at the class expectantly, the class quickly comes to a hush. “I have a special treat for us,” Hannibal announces. He gestures with a graceful sweep and turn of his hand towards Will. “I’ve asked Dr. Graham from our Psychology department to come to visit. Please help me to impress him. But tread carefully; I promise it’s not easily done.”  
  
The crowd gives a smattering of good-natured laughs. Will recognizes one student who doesn’t laugh – _Francis_ , who’s glowering like seemingly always. It seems the student’s managed to inch himself closer to Hannibal in the classroom, though Will can’t say he remembers the two interacting during the party. Will’s not sure how it would have gone if Hannibal had tried to make that introduction. _  
_  
“We’ve discussed sin in written word and artistic representation, but it’s time now to consider the _psychological_ perspective,” Hannibal begins, clicking over to his next slide without looking back to see it. “Jung described the shadow as ‘the dark side of the personality’ or ‘the original conception of evil in the world.’ Meanwhile, Freud traced all religion, including the original sin, back to non-spiritual psychological processes.” Hannibal pauses to scan across the crowd. “Someone reassure Dr. Graham that I at least taught you about the original sin.”  
  
Hannibal calls on a student in the front room with their hand held up high and eager. Her voice is just as eager as she answers, “The original sin is the Christian doctrine that a tainted nature is inherited through the act of birth.”  
  
“Resulting in a sinful disposition manifesting itself in habitually sinful behavior,” Hannibal continues, seeming neither impressed nor disappointed. “How do we understand what makes sin so enticing?”  
  
“The original sin was disobedience in the form of acting on temptation against God’s command,” another student answers when Hannibal calls on them. “Now we’re doomed to resisting temptation and proving ourselves by being obedient forever – with some shame sprinkled in just as a little extra something.”  
  
“Sin is an absence,” Francis interjects without so much as raising his hand or being called on. His brow furrows and his voice rumbles as he curls back into his shoulders and continues, “ _Starvation_ feeding itself only more hunger, feeding it because _you have to_.”  
  
Hannibal hums. “Dr. Graham?” he invites as he turns back towards Will. “In your expert opinion, how do we understand the thoughts and feelings that contribute to sinful behavior?”  
  
Will clears his throat and shifts restlessly in his seat. “When we entice ourselves to disaster it is with the thought that we will benefit one way or another,” he explains, trying not to wince at how his voice trembles. He thinks of many decisions that can be made in a life – decisions he’s made in _his_ life, decisions he made _just last night_. “There are terrible options that can seem reasonable so long as they offer _something_ that’s sorely missing. That’s how people are tempted against their best interests. The most seemingly irrational patterns come from an understandable source.”  
  
Hannibal smiles at him as he clicks over to the next slide. “A 1978 article in the _Journal of Religion and Health_ titled _‘The_ _Adam and Eve Syndrome’_ suggested that the narrative of Adam and Eve can clarify psychological dilemmas for patients suffering from overwhelming guilt and related depression,” he continues. “The original sin taught Adam and Eve the ability to label things good or evil and thereby label aspects of themselves, like their own nakedness, as evil.”  
  
“The origin of self-criticism,” Will muses aloud. He hardly notices he has maybe interrupted, but he does notice how Hannibal’s smile widens just a little bit more. Though Hannibal’s smile doesn’t _quite_ show his teeth like Will’s does as he continues, “Take it too far and you have scrupulosity.”  
  
“Would you be so kind as to define that for us, Dr. Graham?” Hannibal asks with a wink and a nod of his head towards the crowd.  
  
Will blinks away towards the many eyes that watch him and licks his lips as he explains, “Scrupulosity is characterized by anxiety-inducing intrusive thoughts about religious or moral issues. It can be associated with excessive attention given to _‘proper’_ religious practice.”  
  
“In that case, it’s not the sin that has endless hunger but the _fixation_ on it,” Hannibal suggests with eyebrows raised a little curious and a little like _I told you so_. “According to the original sin, a person cannot _ever_ be without sin. The ideal to erase or control it can never be achieved fully. No matter what we decide to do or not do, there will always be a bit of sin deep within.”  
  
“Nothing thrives in isolation,” Will says, forgetting again about the many eyes in the room and thinking only of eyes he’s never quite seen in the night. He shifts his hand to the top of his bag, which allows him to press ever so slightly against the top of his belly. “That bit of sin might always hold a longing for company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like for a story that originated with a monster-fucking idea, this story has been sorely lacking in monster-fucking...Hopefully, this chapter helps to remedy that.
> 
> Also, I never grew up with religion, so everything religious in this fic is interpretation of whatever I read online. It’s probably not 100% accurate to any iteration of any religion since I’m sort of adapting it for the lore. Feel free to let me know if you have any concerns about how I’ve adapted things.


End file.
